Monday, February 13, 2017

Army veterans return to Standing Rock to form a human shield against police

A growing group of military veterans are willing to put their bodies between Native American activists and the police trying to remove them
Jake Pogue, a 32-year-old marine corps vet, returned to the Sacred Stone camp on Friday.
Jake Pogue, a 32-year-old marine corps vet, returned to the Sacred Stone camp on Friday. Photograph: Sam Levin for the Guardian
US veterans are returning to Standing Rock and pledging to shield indigenous activists from attacks by a militarized police force, another sign that the fight against the Dakota Access pipeline is far from over.
Army veterans from across the country have arrived in Cannon Ball, North Dakota, or are currently en route after the news that Donald Trump’s administration has allowed the oil corporation to finish drilling across the Missouri river.
The growing group of military veterans could make it harder for police and government officials to try to remove hundreds of activists who remain camped near the construction site and, some hope, could limit use of excessive force by law enforcement during demonstrations. 
“We are prepared to put our bodies between Native elders and a privatized military force,” said Elizabeth Williams, a 34-year-old air force veteran, who arrived at Standing Rock with a group of vets late on Friday. “We’ve stood in the face of fire before. We feel a responsibility to use the skills we have.”
It is unclear how many vets may arrive to Standing Rock; some organizers estimate a few dozen are on their way, while other activists are pledging that hundreds could show up in the coming weeks. An estimated 1,000 veterans traveled to Standing Rock in December just as the Obama administration announced it was denying a key permit for the oil company, a huge victory for the tribe.
The veterans camp at Standing Rock.
Pinterest
 The veterans camp at Standing Rock. Photograph: Sam Levin for the Guardian
The massive turnout – including a ceremony in which veterans apologized to indigenous people for the long history of US violence against Native Americans – served as a powerful symbol against the $3.7bn pipeline.
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But the presence of vets was not without controversy. Some said the groups were disorganized and unprepared to camp in harsh winter conditions, and others lamented that they weren’t following the directions of the Native Americans leading the movement.
Vets with post-traumatic stress disorder also suffered in the cold and chaotic environment without proper support, said Matthew Crane, a US navy veteran who is helping coordinate a return group with the organization VeteransRespond. His group has vowed to be self-sufficient and help the activists, who call themselves “water protectors”, with a wide range of services, including cleanup efforts, kitchen duties, medical support and, if needed, protection from police.
“This is a humanitarian issue,” said Crane, 33. “We’re not going to stand by and let anybody get hurt.”
On Friday afternoon, as snow rapidly melted during an unusually warm day in Cannon Ball, Jake Pogue helped organize a vets camp area at Sacred Stone, the first camp that emerged last spring in opposition to the pipeline.
“We’re not coming as fighters, but as protectors,” said the 32-year-old marine corps vet, noting that he was concerned about police escalating tactics. “Our role in that situation would be to simply form a barrier between water protectors and the police force and try to take some of that abuse for them.”
Since last fall, police have made roughly 700 arrests, at times deploying water cannons, Mace, rubber bullets, teargas, pepper spray and other less-than-lethal weapons. Private guards for the pipeline have also been accused of violent tactics.
“We have the experience of standing in the face of adverse conditions – militarization, hostility, intimidation,” said Julius Page, a 61-year-old veteran staying at the vets camp.
Dan Luker, a 66-year-old veteran who visited Standing Rock in December and returned this month, said that for many who fought in Vietnam or the Middle East it was “healing” to help water protectors.
Julius Page a 61-year-old veteran: ‘We have the experience of standing in the face of adverse conditions.’
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 Julius Pag,e a 61-year-old veteran: ‘We have the experience of standing in the face of adverse conditions.’ Photograph: Sam Levin for the Guardian
“This is the right war, right side,” said Luker, a Vietnam vet from Boston. “Finally, it’s the US military coming on to Sioux land to help, for the first time in history, instead of coming on to Sioux land to kill natives.”
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Luker said he was prepared to be hit by police ammunition if necessary: “I don’t want to see a twentysomething, thirtysomething untrained person killed by the United States government.”
LaDonna Brave Bull Allard, founder of the Sacred Stone camp and a Standing Rock tribe member, said she welcomed the return of the vets.
“The veterans are going to make sure everything is safe and sound,” she said, adding, “The people on the ground have no protection.”
At Standing Rock, indigenous activists say the mass arrests and police violencehave led many of them to develop PTSD, suffering symptoms that many veterans understand well.
“This historical trauma of indigenous communities in this country is very real. It’s tragic,” said Crane. “The military has a lot of the same problems.”
Aubree Peckham, a member of the Mescalero Apache tribe who has been at Standing Rock for months, was in tears on Friday as she described the way indigenous water protectors have bonded with vets.
“We don’t know how to protect ourselves against the tactical weapons they are using,” she said. “They are getting us better prepared.”
Peckham said the affection was mutual: “We are able to talk about PTSD. And they finally feel like they are understood.”

Since you’re here …

… we have a small favour to ask. More people are reading the Guardian than ever but far fewer are paying for it. And advertising revenues across the media are falling fast. So you can see why we need to ask for your help. The Guardian’s independent, investigative journalism takes a lot of time, money and hard work to produce. But we do it because we believe our perspective matters – because it might well be your perspective, too.
If everyone who reads our reporting, who likes it, helps to pay for it, our future would be much more secure.

In Boston-Thu Feb 23 6p La Buena Vida + Q&A w Avi Chomsky, delegation a Colombia

Thu Feb 23 6p La Buena Vida + Q&A w Avi Chomsky, delegation a Colombia

Encuentro 5, 9 Hamilton Pl Suite 2a, Boston, MA 02108

Learn about a delegation to Colombia
Colombia: The People Behind the Coal
June 18 - June 25
http://witnessforpeace.org/?tribe_events=colombia-the-people-behind-the-coal
<http://witnessforpeace.org/?tribe_events=colombia-the-people-behind-the-coal>

Screening of La Buena Vida (The Good Life, 1 hr 33 min, Spanish and
German, English subtitles, trailer:https://vimeo.com/118134553
<https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fvimeo.com%2F118134553&h=ATM3zHBz5An7XbgczLj4AyMRwCxNMawsFCMv0haOou5gG_u7qty_zozHn1amRbYEYd4sLjYztOjHvLP0TRjoN_IElll_Ke3RUjA-KcsF9cTGhv9205EAmD5Y-M2xw933M71XDV6zutcSrYcQYcOoarTB&enc=AZN5GFyCJBcwMhBIvT1QsHPchiFwQZUWy4cd0-FBRPyicvDAc9vWbRBZ4tgrTQ7J7Hk&s=1>😉
winner of Best Documentary in the 2016 Boston Latino International Film
Festival
http://www.bliff.org/2016-awards/

and Q&A with Avi Chomsky, Professor of History and Coordinator of Latin
American, Latino, and Caribbean Studies at Salem State University

The village of Tamaquito lies in the forests of Colombia. Here, nature
provides the people with everything they need. But the Wayúu community’s
way of life is being destroyed by the vast and rapidly growing El
Cerrejón coal mine. Determined to save his community from forced
resettlement, young and charismatic leader Jairo Fuentes sets out to
negotiate with the mine’s operators. They’re backed by powerful global
resources companies such as Glencore, Anglo American and BHP Billiton
and communicating with their representatives isn’t easy. The villagers
are promised the blessings of progress, but the Wayúu place no value on
modern, electrified houses – on the so-called “better life.” Instead,
they embark on a fight to save their life in the forest, which soon
becomes a fight to survive. “La Buena Vida” (The Good Life) is the story
of the Wayúu community, set against a global backdrop of rising energy
consumption being driven by the pursuit of growth and affluence.

Here is a petition for you to consider signing on to that will be
presented to the Colombian President and Nobel Peace Prize laureate Juan
Manuel Santos at the World Water Day on 22 March 2017.
https://weact.campact.de/petitions/schrei-nach-wasser-drei-kohlekonzerne-begehen-wortbruch
<https://weact.campact.de/petitions/schrei-nach-wasser-drei-kohlekonzerne-begehen-wortbruch>

A copy of the film can be purchased on line:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N138WLY/ref=sr_1_1?s=instant-video&ie=UTF8&qid=1484992157&sr=1-1&keywords=la+buena+vida
<https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N138WLY/ref=sr_1_1?s=instant-video&ie=UTF8&qid=1484992157&sr=1-1&keywords=la+buena+vida>

_______________________________________________
Act-MA mailing list
Act-MA@act-ma.org
http://act-ma.org/mailman/listinfo/act-ma_act-ma.org

Trump And The Doomsday Clock



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DANIEL HERTZBERG FOR THE BOSTON GLOBE
The most chilling concern about Donald Trump is the worldwide fear that he puts our very survival at risk. This is not loose talk or partisanship. It was recently expressed by the most thoughtful experts who monitor the risks to our survival: The Science and Security Board of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, who are the keepers of the Doomsday Clock. These experts have just told the world it is “Two and a half minutes to midnight,” where midnight signifies the end of civilization. This is the closest to doom since 1953, when both the United States and Russia first possessed thermonuclear weapons capable of destroying the world.
Let’s not panic. Instead, let’s think, plan, and act. As President John F. Kennedy famously declared, “Our problems are manmade — therefore, they can be solved by man.” The problem of Donald Trump can be solved too, by the institutions of American democracy and the international rule of law.
The Doomsday Clock was created 70 years ago, in the early days of the Cold War and the nuclear weapons race between the United States and the Soviet Union. For the first time in human history, mankind possessed the means of causing not only great carnage and suffering, but also the very destruction of humanity. The early generation of atomic scientists recognized the profound and unprecedented dangers of the new weapons and sought to warn the world. In the first edition of the clock, in 1947, they set the it to seven minutes before midnight, nuclear Armageddon. As the Cold War intensified, and atomic bombs gave way to vastly more powerful thermonuclear bombs, the minute hand moved five minutes closer to midnight.
When JFK came into office he powerfully expressed the existential paradox of modernity. “For man holds in his mortal hands the power to abolish all forms of human poverty and all forms of human life.” We never came closer to the end than in the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962, when mistakes by both the United States and the Soviet Union led the world to the very brink of nuclear war. In 1963, brilliant diplomacy by Kennedy, supported by the moral leadership of Pope John XXIII and the bold statesmanship of Nikita Khrushchev, led to the signing of the Partial Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. Humanity was spared. The minute hand of the Doomsday Clock moved back to 12 minutes before midnight, a margin of safety.

With America’s escalation of the Vietnam War under Lyndon Johnson, the minute hand began to move once again toward midnight, while Richard Nixon’s “detente” with the Soviet Union again reduced the tensions and put the minute hand back to 12 minutes before midnight. Then tensions escalated with Ronald Reagan’s new arms buildup, until Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev launched the process of political and economic reform, perestroika, that culminated in the end of the Cold War and the end of the Soviet Union itself in 1991. Humanity had, it seemed, reached a moment of relative safety; the minute hand stood at 17 minutes before midnight that year.
Yet if ever a historic opportunity for safety was squandered, this was it. Every US president since then — Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama — has contributed to a decline of global safety, with the minute-hand moving from 17 minutes before midnight to just three minutes before midnight last year, even before Donald Trump became president. And after just a few days in office, Trump has contributed to another 30-second jump of the minute-hand toward midnight.
What went wrong between 1991 and now? Two grave mistakes. The first was the failure to capitalize on the end of the Cold War by establishing a trustworthy relationship between the United States and Russia. While most Americans would blame Vladimir Putin for that, they should follow the Gospel advice of Jesus: “You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother’s eye.” Instead of working with Russia after 1991, the United States unilaterally asserted its military power, expanding NATO toward Russia’s borders and invading several countries in the Middle East. The Cold War was revived, not ended.
The second mistake was to turn a blind eye to the second existential threat: human-induced global warming. While the threat from nuclear weapons was easy enough to perceive (though also easy to forget day to day), the existential threat from human-induced climate change was far more difficult. To understand it requires at least a basic awareness of quantum physics, the Earth’s physical dynamics, and Earth’s climate and economic history. Our presidents and Congress have lacked that. They understand money from lobbyists — oil and gas companies — not quantum physics.
There are dire risks of our continued burning of coal, oil, and gas. When these fossil fuels are burned, they emit carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. Carbon dioxide has the special quantum-mechanical property that it absorbs infrared radiation and thereby acts as a kind of atmospheric “greenhouse” for Earth, causing the planet to warm. This is of course clear to atmospheric chemists but not to most politicians. The science and Earth history also make clear that we are recklessly gambling with future survival. The ocean level could rise by 20 feet or more as a result of even slight further increases in temperature. Only a fool would say that since such an outcome is not completely certain, we should simply continue to burn fossil fuels at the maximum rate.
After just a few days as president, Trump induced the atomic scientists to move the minute-hand another 30 seconds toward midnight. They explained their unprecedented move as follows:
“The board’s decision to move the clock less than a full minute — something it has never before done — reflects a simple reality: As this statement is issued, Donald Trump has been the US president only a matter of days. Many of his Cabinet nominations are not yet confirmed by the Senate or installed in government, and he has had little time to take official action. Just the same, words matter, and President Trump has had plenty to say over the last year. Both his statements and his actions as president-elect have broken with historical precedent in unsettling ways.’’
They then cite Trump’s recklessness both toward nuclear weapons and climate change. On nuclear weapons, Trump has casually suggested that Japan and Korea should become nuclear powers; that a new nuclear-arms race is welcome; and that the use of nuclear weapons (e.g., in regard to ISIS) is not “off the table.” Yes, for every statement such as these, there are equal and opposite statements as well. There is, in short, casualness, inconsistency, and incoherence.
On climate change, the inconsistencies are not the problem; denial is. Trump has completely turned his administration’s environmental policies over to the oil and gas industry. The State Department is now in the hands of ExxonMobil; the Environmental Protection Agency is in the hands of politicians like Scott Pruitt, long financed by the fossil-fuel industry. The word on Capitol Hill is simple: The mega-billionaire Koch brothers, who own the nation’s largest private fossil-fuel company, own Congress, or at least the Republican side.
Trump is a bully whose bluster is designed to intimidate and wrong-foot a foe, and in Trump’s worldview, just about everybody is a foe. As he has famously explained, in an attitude inherited from his father, there are “killers” and there are “losers.” The bluster is designed to put Killer Trump ahead of the losers. The key to survival in the Trump era is to look past the bluster, face down the bullying, and prevent Trump’s poorly controlled emotions from guiding the policies of the United States on these life-and-death issues.
Despite the bravado of the flood of executive orders, most of them are mere statements of intent, not legally binding instruments. The courts will have their say; and the regulatory agencies must follow rigorous procedures to change existing regulations, all of which are subject to court review and congressional supervision. This is not to say that bullies do not get their way; they can. But bullies only get their way when others back down.
Trump’s recklessness can be checked in five ways.
First, the courts will scrutinize these poorly prepared and ill-considered executive orders; many will be quashed. The Muslim ban on entry to the United States is now on hold, perhaps never to be implemented. Every one of Trump’s early executive orders is likely to face court challenges and prolonged litigation.
Second, it will just take a few patriotic Republican senators joining with the Democrats to put a stop to Trump’s mad rush of recklessness. Will Senators John McCain, Lindsey Graham, Susan Collins, Rob Portman, Lisa Murkowski, or Ron Paul, among others, really stand by if Trump acts recklessly brings us to the brink of nuclear war? Or would these and other senators allow the corruption and greed of the Senate to gut the Paris Climate Agreement? Of course, that’s possible, but these senators have children and grandchildren too, and most are not as stupid as their party’s official position on climate change.
Third, Trump is rapidly uniting the world — against the United States. Within just two weeks of office, Trump had the European Union president listing the Trump administration alongside Russia, China, and the Middle East as threats to the European Union. China’s President Xi Jinping has offered to take up the internationalist mantle that Trump is so eager to relinquish. Almost all of the world is also united in urging the handful of nuclear-weapons countries to honor their solemn obligations, under the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty, to take concrete steps toward nuclear disarmament, and not to instigate a renewed and dangerous arms race.
Fourth, while consumers have little sway over nuclear weapons, they have considerable sway over climate change. America’s brand names need to be put on notice: If you cower to the Koch Brothers, American Petroleum Institute, and Chamber of Commerce, you will pay a price. General Electric, are you with us or against us on saving the planet? How about you, Pepsi, Walmart, IBM, Walt Disney, GM, and other companies on Trump’s “strategic and policy forum”? Uber CEO Travis Kalanick has already walked out of the forum because of Trump’s Muslim travel ban. For those who remain, the millennial generation of consumers will soon walk out on you if you are accomplices to Trump’s attempt to gut the treaty agreements restricting global warming and the domestic regulations to implement them.
Fifth, of course, is electoral politics. In moments of pessimism, it may seem that Trump will trample American democracy, thereby preventing a course correction in 2020 or earlier. Yet Trump is no Caesar or Augustus, and America is no republican Rome on the verge of succumbing to dictatorship. No doubt Trump can do great damage; our institutional checks and balances have been gravely weakened by decades of rule by the military-industrial-intelligence complex. Presidents indeed have the power to launch wars, even secret ones run by the CIA and special ops units that can kill vast numbers of innocents. Yet the first days of Trump’s mayhem show that the American people, and our political institutions, are not ready to accede to bullies. I’m counting on the millennials to lead the way.
Jeffrey D. Sachs is University Professor and director of the Center for Sustainable Development at Columbia University, and author of “The Age of Sustainable Development.”
-- 
Cole Harrison
Executive Director
Massachusetts Peace Action
11 Garden St, Cambridge, MA 02138
w: 617-354-2169
m: 617-466-9274
f: /masspeaceaction
t: @masspeaceaction
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***Poet’s Corner- Langston Hughes- Juke Box Love Song

***Poet’s Corner- Langston Hughes- Juke Box Love Song

 




From The Pen Of Frank Jackman



February is Black History Month



Juke Box Love Song



I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue busses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day--
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.


Langston Hughes

He, Jimmy Sands, new in town, new in New Jack City although, not new to city life having lived in Baltimore, Detroit, Chi Town, Frisco and Seattle along the way decided to hit the uptown hot spots one night. Not the “hot" hot spots like the Kit Kat Club which was strictly for the Mayfair swells, or the Banjo Club, the same, but the lesser clubs, the what did he mock call them, yah, “the plebeian clubs,” which translated to him as the place where hot chicks, mostly white, Irish usually, from the old country, all red-headed, all slim and slinky, all, all, pray, pray, ready to give up that goddam novena book they carried around since birth, maybe before, and live, read give in to his siren song of love, and ditto some sassy light-skinned (high yella his father, his father who never got beyond Kentucky-born nigra to designate the black kindred, called them) black girls, steamy Latinas with those luscious lips and far-way brown eyes, and foxy (foxy if he could ever understand them, or rather their wants) Asian girls, a whole mix, a mix joined together by one thing, no, two things, one youth, young, young and hungry, young and ready, young and, well, you know, young and horny, and two, a love of dancing, rock and roll dancing (and in a pinch, maybe that last dance pinch, in order to seal the evening’s deal, a slow one but that story, that slow last dance chance has been written to death, written to death about guys, black and white guys in their respective neighborhoods, who not sure for some reason about the social graces would hug walls, gym walls usually until they got older, then dance hall walls eyeing, eyeing until their eyeballs got sore, some young thing and hoping against hope for that last dance. Like I say that story had been written unto the shades).

So one James Sands, taxi-driven, indicating that for once in his tender young life that he was flush with dough (having just done a seaman’s three month tour of every odd-ball oil tanker port of call in the eastern world it seemed, he was not sure that he would ever get that oil tank smell out of his nostrils, all he knew was that he would have to be shanghaied or something to get him back on one of those dirty buggers) and ready to spend it on high- shelf liquor (already having scored some precious high end jimson, you know, weed, reefer in case he got lucky), some multi-colored women (choices listed see above), and some music, alighted (nice) in front of Jim Sweeney’s Hi Hat Club up around 100thStreet just around where things began to mix and match in the city. The only problem, when he inquired, inquired of that beautiful ganga connection, was that while Jim Sweeney’s had plenty of high- priced, high-shelf liquor and plenty of that mix and match bevy of women that the place had no live band for dancing just a jukebox. But a jukebox that had every kind of song, rock and blues song, you could ask for and the speakers were to die for. So here he was.

As Jimmy entered (nice, no cover) he remembered back to the days in the old neighborhood, the old high school after school scene, in dockside Baltimore, at Ginny’s Pizza Parlor where every cool guy and gal went to have their chilling out pizza and soda, maybe a couple of cigarettes, a habit he wished he could break even now, and to play about ten songs on Ginny’s jukebox. He remembered too that afternoon when Shana, long, tall, high yella (sorry but that was what such woman were called then, maybe now too) Shana, from the cheerleaders’ squad showed up there alone, and Shana, if you had seen her would under no circumstances ever need to be alone in any spot in this good green earth much less at Ginny’s.

Seems she and her boyfriend had had a falling out and she was on the prowl. Taking his chances Jimmy, old smooth Jimmy, asked her to dance when somebody put Chuck Berry’s Roll Over Beethoven on, and she said, yes, did you hear that, yes. And that dance got him a couple more, and then a couple more after that, until Shana said she had to leave to go home for some supper and then somebody put on Ballad of Easy Rider, a slow one by The Byrds, and that was their last chance dance. They saw each other a few times after that, had shared some stuff, but, hell, there was no way in that damn Baltimore city that a white-bread (term of art used in the neighborhoods so take no offense, none taken here) and a high yella (take offense, if you like) could breathe the air there together, although he was ready to jump the hoops to do the thing. Maybe tonight, maybe in the crazy mix and match night if he didn’t get distracted by some red-headed Irish girl ready to burn that damn novena book for some whiskey and smoke, he might find his Shana, make something of it, and make the East River smile.

The Cold Civil War Has Started- General Strike Against Trump-February 17th-Build The Resistance!

The Cold Civil War Has Started- General Strike Against Trump-February 17th-Build The Resistance!  




The Cold Civil War In America has started (maybe has been going on, brewing, for longer than the start of the Trump regime but this is where the social fault line lies now) -Which side are you on? Build the Resistance! Build the International Solidarity Front! Build the General Strike! All Out On The 17th.


Check out this Facebook link to the General Strike Against Trump Page-Which Side Are You On? 

https://www.facebook.com/events/1756631744665376/

JOIN US FOR A GENERAL STRIKE!!!

WEBSITE: http://f17strike.com/
FACEBOOK GROUP: https://facebook.com/groups/1816330771961327

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

On February 17th We SHUT IT DOWN!

We will have day of general strike and non-violent civil disobedience and demonstration.

Our Demands:

1. No Ban, No Wall. The Muslim ban is immoral, the wall is expensive and ineffectual. We will build bridges, not walls.

2. Healthcare For All. Healthcare is a human right. Do not repeal the ACA. Improve it or enact Medicare for All.

3. No Pipelines. Rescind approval for DAPL and Keystone XL and adopt meaningful policies to protect our environment. It's the only one we've got.

4. End the Global Gag Rule. We cannot put the medical care of millions of women around the globe at risk.

5. Disclose and Divest. Show us your taxes. Sell your company. Ethics rules exist for a reason and presidents should focus on the country, not their company.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

In his first week in office President Trump has trampled on human rights at home and around the world. He has banned legal immigrants and refugees from entering the country, defunded critical health initiatives for women in developing nations, dismantled the EPA and environmental protections, approved the Dakota Access and Keystone XL Pipelines, and directed the government to begin to dismantle the Affordable Care Act without any plan for covering the millions who would be left uninsured.

Trump has put our foreign policy and our very democracy in peril. He has purged the Joint Chiefs of Staff director of national intelligence and put them on invitation only status for future meetings. Meanwhile Trump added his political strategiest and extreme right media executive, Steve Bannon, on the National Security Council. These are troubling decisions and signal a move away from democratic governance.

His actions are being felt around the globe as legal immigrants are detained and deported. The Muslim ban is immoral, illegal, and un-American. He is not making America safer, he is hurting our economy and damaging our reputation with his racist policies and rhetoric.

Trump is not draining the swamp in Washington. He and his billionaire friends ARE the swamp. He refuses to divest from his company, creating a massive conflict of interest the likes the presidency has never seen. His cabinet is worth more than $9 billion and comes from ExxonMobile, Goldman Sachs, and predatory mortgage investment firms. These are the wrong people to lead our country.

On February 17th we will show Donald Trump and his cronies in Washington that our voices will be heard. No work will be done. No money will be spent. We will not support his corrupt government. We will STRIKE!!

Right now we are putting together a coalition of people and groups that are interested in organizing the strike. If your group would like to help let us know! To be successful we need buy in from a large number of political organizations and labor groups across the country.

#GeneralStrike #StandUpFightBack #BlackLivesMatter #NoBanNoWall#NoDAPL #NoKeystoneXL #StopTrump #RefugeesWelcome #Resist#WomensMarch

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/jan/30/travel-ban-airport-protests-disruption

http://www.mediapost.com/publications/article/293981/could-a-general-strike-succeed-maybe-with-social.html

Sunday, February 12, 2017

In Honor Of Abraham Lincoln's Birthday- "John Brown's Body"





In Honor Of Black And Women's History Months- From The Archives Of Women And Revolution-The Clash Over The "Color Purple"

In Honor Of Black And Women's History Months- From The Archives Of Women And Revolution-The Clash Over The "Color Purple"







Speak To Me Of Mendocino-With The McGarrigle Sisters Song On The Same Theme In Mind

Speak To Me Of Mendocino-With The McGarrigle Sisters Song On The Same Theme In Mind





Sid Lester had often wondered over the years whether Lena, Lena of the Caffe Lena, would have ever gotten to the Mendocino of her dreams. At least that was the take that the McGarrigle Sister, Anna and the late Kate had on her when they wrote the song to put to words what Lena had in her heart about what must have seemed a mystical place (and it was, is). And they should have known since they were both staples of the place in lean times and had lived there as well. So they knew that Lena coveted a trip to the West where the continent ends and all you have between you and the Japan seas and the search for the high white note, folk variety, were the magnificent cliffs and fieriest ocean splashes along the decadent Pacific Coast Highway well to the north of San Francisco.

For those who have forgotten, or are too young to have any memories of the old place Caffe Lena’s was, and is, the small coffeehouse in Saratoga, New York fast by Skidmore College that weaned many folksingers beside the McGarrigles like Arlo Guthrie, Utah Phillips and Rosalie Sorrel in the days when such activity was on deck, in the time of the now fabled early 1960s folk minute. That time of our time when a whole bunch of young people like Sid and his assorted consorts had taken a short time out from their cradle to the grave rock and roll, the signpost that they had come of age under and would return to once the ossified music that counted as rock in the late 1950s went to the shades and a new crowd came in. Lena was the owner, manager, chief cook and bottle washer, talent-spotter that made the place jump for many years and it would not have surprised Sid if she had not been to untie the umbilical cord that fastened her to the place, made her use up her fair share of nervous energy keeping the project together, keeping the spirit of that too short folk minute alive.   

Lena, she the grey eminence now, had long gone to the shades when Sid was seriously asking the question and so that was not her bother to answer if she had ever gotten to the Mendocino of her dreams and the consummated the ocean splashed out on the rim of the world song of the same name that the McGarrigle Sisters had written for her when she dreamed the dream of West Coast dreams. This was nevertheless no mere academic question just now as we sneak a peek at the scene since Sid was asking it not only to himself but to his lovely companion, Mona Lord, who was accompanying him just that moment on the Pacific Coast Highway about fifty miles from that very spot, from the Mendocino of his dreams if not Mona’s (fifty miles but probably about three hours away given the hairpin turns that he increasingly hated to take along some very treacherous stretches of that beautiful view highway having almost gone down an un-guard-railed embankment to the ocean around Big Sur a few years back).

It was not like Sid had not been to the dreamland before, having made the trip up from the fetid seas of Frisco town a number of times (fetid Ocean Beach fast by Seal Rock or inside the breakers come hard on Golden Gate pilings in comparison to the Mendocino white-washed breakers eroding the sheer rock at a greater rate than he would have expected). Six or seven mostly when he was younger and had the time and nerves to traverse that treacherous stretch of road. (Sure you can take Highway 101 in and run through the gods’ wine country but frayed nerves or not if you are coming up from Frisco town why not take the beauty in). He had taken the trips up mostly with his old time now long gone to “find herself” Laura, Laura Perkins whom he had talked into going up those several times based on nothing more than that he liked the song when he first heard on some now defunct folk radio station of blessed memory.

Liked too that she, Laura in her, their sunnier days, days when they had pledged eternal love on some splashed splintered rock in those environs liked it as well and would cover the song anytime she could find somebody to do a duo with her at “open mics” and features depending on how she was feeling.

(After the feverish folk minute had run its course, by say 1966 with a residue of folk rock that lingered for a while the folk aficionados hunkered down, continue to now hunker down not in places like Caffe Lena, Club 47, The Gaslight, the Club Nana and Café Blue in places like North Beach, the Village and Harvard Square but in small eateries, storefronts and what Sid laughingly called the U/U circuit of monthly coffeehouses put on by those self-same angel aficionados in basements and rec rooms of, well, mainly friendly Universalist-Unitarian Churches and hence the name. There long-time amateur folk-singers and a few aspiring new-comers gather to sing a few songs each and maybe occasionally get a longer stint as a feature doing perhaps eight to ten songs. Some things never change though as their reward is whatever cash turns up in the “basket” (or hat) that is sent around the audience just like in the old days. Sid assumed that Laura was still plucking away somewhere he did not know since she had left one afternoon leaving only a note saying that she had had to “fine herself””-alone  and that she would contact him when she landed in some stable spot. She never did and Sid reluctantly moved on.)   

Mona having heard the song exactly once when Sid had the car radio on to one of the faded folk radio stations and the song came on as she was arguing with him about when he was going to take her to California (her California really Hollywood and Los Angeles if you need to know). She didn’t like the fact that Laura had liked the song and had been to Mendocino before she had and would not listen when Sid tried to play it on his car CD player as they got closer to the place on this trip. Moreover she was reserving judgment, her standard being very different from Sid’s, on the relationship between the song and the place.

And that last point, the point for Sid anyway, was exactly how the song and the place connected. Was the real source of his wonder, his wonder like some old Dutchman seeing for the first time as F. Scott Fitzgerald put it in one of his books the “fresh green breast of land” and the promise that it held, about old Lena back in the tired old East. Did she too long like he had to be done with Eastern pressures and pitfalls. To say to hell with the ticky-tack world Malvina Reynolds observed out in that 1950s Frisco suburban night.  Could Lena take time to stop worrying about where the money would come from for rent, to pay the utilities, hell to pay the performers and stop them from having to play for the foolish “basket” like when they had just started out on some forlorn street in Cambridge, Berkeley, Ann Arbor, Old Town or the Village. Stop all of that madness, stop the blues from whence she came, and head West, head to South Bend for a minute, head out over the Rockies and suck in the breezes of the new land, of the new dispensation. Yeah, Sid bet though that Lena never got to the West, never could leave her cats, never could get that café out of her system, and would probably fret even if she only went out for a week or so.

As they, Sid and his new friend Mona, approached the out rock outskirts of Mendocino the town in the distance, he wondered, seriously wondered whether Mona would ask him someday to speak of Mendocino, to let the place get under her skin, to let the rocks save her soul and wash her clean like in some bygone day some religious revival would have put her heart on fire. Yeah, speak to me of Mendocino.                  


***Poet’s Corner- Langston Hughes – On Lincoln’s Birthday Lincoln Memorial: Washington

***Poet’s Corner- Langston Hughes – On Lincoln’s Birthday Lincoln Memorial: Washington












From The Pen Of Frank Jackman



February is Black History Month





Lincoln Memorial: Washington



Let's go see Old Abe
Sitting in the marble and the moonlight,
Sitting lonely in the marble and the moonlight,
Quiet for ten thousand centuries, old Abe.
Quiet for a million, million years.

Quiet-

And yet a voice forever
Against the
Timeless walls
Of time-
Old Abe.




…he, Father Abraham he, pug-ugly he that no midnight moonless night or early morning darkest hour before the dawn monument chiseled stone could render beautiful (damn, that age of tin-type sepia photography, that Mathew Brady and his merry band hunched inside those clothed lightless, airless boxes, that damn warts and all pre-digital photography, when a painterly touch, say rough-hewn campsite wise and bloody wounded battle weary Winslow Homer’s, might have made him, well, just plain). Yes, warts and all, sitting arched in lighted stone in judgment, eternity self-judgment (did he do this or that action right to further that furrowed brow first of all, overall, preliminary assessment right on union and slow on the inevitable abolition call that old Frederick Douglass and the ever-hovering ghost of Captain John Brown late of Kansas and Harper’s Ferry fight had urged upon a blood-stained land).



He, furrowed in youth and pug-ugly, in youth, thus no catch for gentile Kentucky bourbon belle daughters sitting astride Stephen Foster’s old black Joe, the old darkies are gay, or so it seemed, waiting for Mister Brett Butler to come a-calling, all Kentuck born and Illini-bred (where the best they could do was say nigra when talking about the slave problem. And later, much later the sons and grandsons of poor as dirt Kentuck hills and hollows mountain boys, Harlan County roughs, picked that up nigra expression too, and went to their graves with that on their lips, Jesus.). He meant to keep all the races split, let them, the blacks, (nigras, remember) go back to Canaan land, go back to Africa, go to some not American union place but keep them out of Chi town (sounds familiar) had a conversion, maybe not a conversion so much as a lining up of his beliefs with his “walk the walk” talk. Get this reasoning: if he could save the union by NOT freeing slave one he would do so, if he could save the union by freeing some rebel-held slaves he would do so, if he could save the union by freeing every goddam slave in every stinking corner of every stinking cotton plantation he would do. By 1862 the vagaries of war, the skimpy logic of his position, would lead him kicking and screaming to the latter. But despite being a man of his time on the “colored” question he did what he had to and hence that righteous small marble tribute at the river end of the National Mall.    



He ran for president, President of the United States, not as a son of William Lloyd Garrison, all Newburyport prissy and hell- bent on damning the Constitution for that third-fifth of a man error and for Taney’s Dred Scott decision, his Abe well-thumbed, well-read constitution, or some reformed wild boy Liberty man barely contained in the Fremont Republican dust but a busted out Whig when whiggery went to ground, (hell, no, he would not go down with the ship on that tack, otherwise he would still be stuck in Springfield or maybe practicing law in bell-weather Podunk Peoria, although he would note what that burg had to say and move slowly). Nor was he some righteous son, Thoreau or Emerson-etched son, of fiery-maned Calvinist sword-in-hand black avenging angel Captain John Brown, late of Kansas blood wars and Harper’s Ferry liberation fight (he had no desire to share the Captain’s blood-soaked fate, mocked his bloody efforts in fact, as if only immense bloods would render the national hurts harmless when later the hills, hollows and blue-green valleys reeked of blood and other stenches).

His goal, simple goal (in the abstract), was to hold the union together, and to curb that damn land hunger slavery, that national abyss. And since they ran politics differently in those days (no women, latinos, nigras to fuss over) and were able to touch up a picture or two even if inexpertly by digital standards (and stretch his biographic facts a bit when the “wide awakes” awoke) he won, barely won but won, was a minority president no question, his writ ran only so far and no further.  And then all hell broke loose, and from day one, from some stormy March day one, he had to bend that big long boney pug-ugly body to the winds, his winds.

And he did, not unequivocally, not John Brown prophet proud, fearlessly facing his gallows and his maker, to erase the dripping blood and canker sore from his homeland, but in a revolutionary way nevertheless, broke down slavery’s house divided, broke it down, no quarter given when the deal went down, when he found Grant to steel his troops and no quarter (and let hell and brimstone Billy Sherman and his “bummers” light up the Southern sky). So more like some latter day Oliver Cromwell (another warts and all man) pushing providence forward with a little kick. More like old Robespierre flaming the masses with the new dispensation, the new words slave freedom. Kept freeing slaves as he went along, kept pushing that freedom envelope, kept pushing his generals south and west and east and tightening , anaconda tightening, the noose on the old ways until Johnny Reb cried “uncle,” cried his fill when righteous Sherman and his cutthroat bummers got to work too. Yes, old Father Abraham, the last of the revolutionary democrats, the last of the serious ones, who couldn’t say black better that nigra, and never could, but knew the old enlightenment freedom word, knew it good.

…and now he belongs to the ages, and rightfully so, warts and all.



*Labor's Untold Story In Song- Remember The Heroic Lawrence Textile Strike Of 1912-"Bread And Roses"-Yes, Indeed

Labor's Untold Story In Song- Remember The Heroic Lawrence Textile Strike Of 1912-"Bread And Roses"-Yes, Indeed


Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Joan Baez and her late sister Mimi Farina performing "Bread and Roses" about the famous textile strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts in 1912.

Poem and Song lyrics-"Bread And Roses"

Poem


As we come marching, marching in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: "Bread and roses! Bread and roses!"
As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!
As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for -- but we fight for roses, too!
As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days.
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler -- ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses! Bread and roses! Song Lyrics

Song

As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!
As we go marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses.
As we go marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient call for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for, but we fight for roses too.
As we go marching, marching, we bring the greater days,
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses, bread and roses.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; bread and roses, bread and roses