This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
December 2017 podcast -- Reality Winner's family talk about what it's like trying to support their loved one during her Orwellian incarceration. Our podcast features Reality's sister Brittney Winner, mom Billie Winner-Davis, and friend Matthew Boyle.
A young woman named Reality Leigh Winner has been jailed without bail since June 2017 for helping expose Russian hacking that targeted US election systems.
Charged under the Espionage Act, she faces ten years in prison, for making a good faith effort to hold President Trump accountable. Reality is the first victim of Trump's "war on whistleblowers."
After serving six years in the Air Force, Reality took a job as an NSA intelligence contractor in January 2017. On the day Trump fired FBI Director James Comey (May 9, 2017), Reality is charged with finding and printing a classified report entitled, "Russia/Cybersecurity: Main Intelligence Directorate Cyber Actors."
The next day (May 10), Trump celebrated with Russian officials in the White House, bragging that he had fired "nut job" Comey in order to end any "Russiagate" investigation. Hours later, Reality allegedly sent the NSA report to the media (May 11).
"Why do I have this job if I'm just going to sit back and be helpless … I just thought that was the final straw," Reality allegedly explained under interrogation. "I felt really hopeless seeing that information contested … Why isn't this out there? Why can't this be public?"
Along with James Comey's leak of Trump meeting notes, the "Winner document" helped set the stage for the appointment of special counsel Robert Mueller a week later (May 17) to investigate "Russiagate."
Reality was an outspoken critic of Trump and an advocate for social justice causes, including Standing Rock, climate science, children with different abilities, animal rights, and Black Lives Matter. Those social media posts are now being used against her in Orwellian proceedings in which her lawyers are not allowed to see much of the evidence against her.
By the time her trial starts–Summer 2018, at the earliest–she'll have spent a full year behind bars. Meanwhile, the actual Russiagate indicted criminals, including Paul Manafort, Rick Gates, George Papadopoulos, and Michael Flynn, haven't spent a day in jail.
Reality Winner's case has precedent setting implications for whistleblowers trying to do the right thing, press freedom, election suppression, and the government's escalating war on dissent. Reality took a risk to share something that Americans had a right to know.
A View From The Left - You Can’t Fight Trump with Capitalist Parties! No to the Democrats, Greens! For a Revolutionary Workers Party!
Workers Vanguard No. 1103
13 January 2017
You Can’t Fight Trump with Capitalist Parties! No to the Democrats, Greens!
For a Revolutionary Workers Party!
The inauguration of Donald Trump as Commander-in-Chief of U.S. imperialism rightly scares the daylights out of millions of people here and worldwide. He and his entourage of virulently racist, women-hating, immigrant-bashing, union-busting, science-denying, anti-gay billionaires proposed for cabinet posts are truly a gallery of ghouls. Thousands are pouring out in protests, but their justified fear and anger are being cynically manipulated by the Democratic Party and its leftist chambermaids to tamp down militancy and entrap protest in an electoral framework that offers workers and the oppressed nothing but the right to be exploited and kicked around by the capitalists under Democratic Party rule instead.
Historically, the Democrats offer the solace of lies and murmur that they feel the pain of working people and minorities. But this time around Hillary Clinton was particularly blatant in her courtship of Wall Street and indifference to workers and black people. Obama was lifted to power on the votes of people who heard him promise “hope and change.” Eight years later, the only “change” under Obama came from the ka-ching of the cash register as the Democrats bailed out Wall Street and the auto barons while screwing the workers. Income inequality has soared, and job precarity, hunger and homelessness are rampant. Meanwhile, the fabulously rich get fabulously richer. In a country founded on the bedrock of black chattel slavery, there is a distinct complexion to inequality that not even a black president could mask. Misplaced hope that Obama’s presidency would alleviate grinding racial oppression has withered as unarmed black men, women and children have continued to be gunned down by the police in cities and suburbs across the country.
It is necessary to categorically reject the lie that American “democracy,” which is nothing but a ruthless dictatorship of the capitalist ruling class, can be reformed in the interests of the oppressed. It is high time to express America’s only hope by mobilizing class hatred against capitalist rule in militant, racially integrated class struggle. The liberation of women, equality for immigrants, and freedom of the entire working class from exploitation under capitalism are inextricably tied to a struggle for black liberation through socialist revolution. There is no other way out for the oppressed in this country. The Spartacist League is dedicated to building a class-struggle, multiracial, revolutionary workers party to lead this necessary fight.
Today, our struggle is mainly ideological—to motivate Marxism against the purveyors of false perspectives that bind the labor movement and the oppressed to their exploiters and oppressors through the Democratic Party. The heaviest shackle on the workers movement is the bureaucratic trade-union misleadership, which serves as an agent of the bourgeoisie within the working class. AFL-CIO head Richard Trumka whines that Trump should see him and the unions he lords it over as “partners” in American capitalism, just as the Democrats did. It is precisely this policy of class collaboration, of renouncing the road of politically independent class struggle that has sapped the strength and numbers of the unions and helped ratchet up the rate of exploitation for the bosses. Even the most basic and immediate demands and rights of labor today can be won only through the methods of militant class struggle.
In the arena of electoral politics and protests, the Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) have emerged to corral disillusioned Bernie Sanders supporters and others scared shitless by Trump into the dead end of revitalizing the Democratic Party. The Democratic Party is the other party of the capitalist ruling class. It more successfully mobilizes the population behind U.S. imperialism’s depredations abroad and successfully subordinates labor and minorities at home by tying them to the bourgeois state through the myth of classless “democracy.” The DSA may present a youthful mien in publications like Jacobin, but its political message is a timeworn program of anti-working class betrayal. Caveat emptor: committed members of the Democratic Party and entrenched in the union bureaucracy, the DSA is a proven and dangerous opponent of everyone fighting for revolutionary social change.
Historically, there is a blood line between social-democratic defenders of capitalist class rule and authentic communists who fight to bring the working class to power through a thoroughgoing socialist revolution. When the working class contended to extend the 1917 Russian proletarian socialist revolution to Germany in 1918-19, the DSA’s political forebears in the German Social Democracy were responsible for the murder of Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht and thus beheaded the revolutionary leadership of the workers movement. Closer to home, the right wing of the American social democracy supported the Vietnam War after even Richard Nixon had given it up. The “Left Wing of the Possible,” the DSA’s Michael Harrington, threw out the leftist youth who forged Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) because they had the audacity to trash their elders’ Cold War ban on communists.
That the DSA is a pole of attraction for anti-Trump protesters is an indication of the low level of political consciousness in this period. Leon Trotsky, co-leader with Lenin of the 1917 socialist revolution in Russia, observed that reactionary periods give rise to “monstrous ideological relapses. Senile thought seems to have become infantile. In search of all-saving formulas the prophets in the epoch of decline discover anew doctrines long since buried by scientific socialism” (“Ninety Years of the Communist Manifesto,” 1937).
Other anti-communist social-democratic outfits, such as Socialist Alternative (SAlt), have put the old garbage of so-called “progressive” municipalism in new pails. SAlt’s idea of fighting for socialism was getting Kshama Sawant elected to the city council in Seattle. In office, she espouses a common interest between landlords and tenants, urges cooperation with the chief of police and promotes the illusory economic justice of a paltry $15.00 per hour minimum wage s-l-o-w-l-y phased in over many years!
This chimera of social-democratic oases at the local level is a 21st-century rerun of “sewer socialism.” At the end of the 19th century and early 20th century, reformists sought to give socialism a “respectable” veneer through local electoral campaigns, epitomized by Victor Berger’s Milwaukee section within the right wing of the Socialist Party. The rabidly white-supremacist Berger promoted a program of piecemeal reforms at the local level (from sewers to clean government) that in no way challenged capitalist rule.
There’s much talk among liberals and social democrats now about creating “sanctuary cities” against Trump’s threatened deportations of immigrants. One must ask: Where was their fervor when President Obama acted as Deporter-in-Chief and unleashed la migra to round up more immigrant workers and their families than his Republican predecessor? New York City mayor Bill de Blasio, a darling of the social democrats, promises his municipality as a sanctuary, yet presides over the “broken windows” law-and-order reign of terror that criminalizes and destroys the lives of black and Latino youth!
While the DSA openly rides (and hopes to steer) the Democratic Party bus, SAlt and the International Socialist Organization (ISO) serve as its spare tires. The ISO goes so far as to pay lip service to the need for an independent workers party, but in practice it builds support for bourgeois third parties like the Greens, whom they called to vote for in the recent election. The ISO prattles endlessly about fighting for “democracy.” But for genuine Marxists, it is ABC to understand that democracy under capitalism is a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie. SAlt still proffers Bernie Sanders as a socialist alternative, a capitalist politician whose “revolution” consisted of delivering all the votes he could muster to the imperialist hawk Hillary Clinton. (For a fuller analysis of the Sanders campaign, see “Bernie Sanders: Imperialist Running Dog,” WV No. 1083, 12 February 2016.) By propagating the myth of classless democracy, these leftists themselves become obstacles to revolutionary social change because they inculcate bourgeois ideology among youth, workers and the oppressed.
Often, leftists who seek to promote or pressure the Democratic Party do so in acts that dare not speak their name. They might not even mention the word “Democrat,” but you’ll hear a lot about “fight the right.” The understanding by implication is that you should support the Democratic Party because no explicit argument is made against it. This is business as usual for the Revolutionary Communist Party. In the guise of “RefuseFascism.org” it has run expensive, hysterically urgent full-page ads and launched a campaign to “refuse to accept a fascist America.” But Trump was elected to office through the routine workings of bourgeois democracy. And in a period characterized by very little class struggle and a rollback of workers rights, the capitalist class has little need to organize and unleash extraparliamentary fascist bands. Racist law and order by the police is sufficient deadly terror in America today.
To be sure, bonafide KKK and Nazi fascists are emboldened by Trump’s win, but reformists peddle the lie that Trump in the White House equals fascism in order to prettify the Democrats. Try promoting the Democrats as a kinder, gentler option to the peoples across the Near East dying under Obama’s drone strikes and who were threatened with a whole lot more by Hillary Clinton. Black people across the U.S.A. are gunned down by cops in cities ruled by Democrats. Families are incarcerated in immigration detention centers and then torn apart through deportations under Democratic Party rule. The welfare benefits of mothers were “ended as we know it” by Bill Clinton. Abortion rights and access to birth control were further restricted under Barack Obama’s watch.
Hillary Clinton supporters spout, “I’m still with her!” as their slogan for a women’s march on Washington, but Clinton and Obama effectively say “I’m with him.” The women’s march is explicitly not anti-Trump. Stressing the continuity of the imperial presidency, Obama said of Trump, “we’re on the same team.”
At the root of every opportunist appetite and impulse expressed by our political opponents is hostility to working-class rule and a steadfast conviction that the capitalist profit system can be reformed to work in the interests of the oppressed. Time is running out on this planet for reruns of this proven lie. As Rosa Luxemburg said, the stark choice is “socialism or barbarism.”
The inequalities of this society are rooted in the capitalist system based on private property and exploitation of the labor of the many for the profit of the few. To eradicate every form of injustice requires a thoroughgoing socialist revolution to create a society in which those who labor rule through soviets, or workers committees, in an egalitarian socialist society based on a collectivized, planned economy. In view of U.S. imperialism’s unrivaled military might, and the terror and destruction it wreaks worldwide, our struggle to forge a revolutionary workers party in America is crucial for the future of humanity.
In this centennial year of the 1917 Russian Revolution, it is necessary to reassert the struggle for authentic Marxism. The final undoing of the Russian Revolution after decades of Stalinist misrule and hostile imperialist encirclement has emboldened the U.S. bourgeoisie’s appetite for world domination, while proletarian consciousness internationally has been thrown back. And yet, communism is America’s last, best hope. The Spartacist League is committed to building the revolutionary workers party to achieve this purpose.
Riverdale Blues-For Allen Ginsburg On The 60th Anniversary Of “Howl” (1956)
By Lance Lawrence
A sad-eyed dope hung around the back of the old-fashioned framed schoolhouse lazily drawing the summer breeze (he lied since the school had only recently been constructed in the big post World II baby boom and he had gone to school here since the place opened-he lied for the sake of lying, lying to himself mostly especially about his sexual longing just then as he hoped to get some chick who was hanging out by the bushes to give him a hand job, give him one like Lucinda had given him that time at the movies when sitting up in the balcony she had unzipped his pants and let her hand move so fast he jerked off after about a minute he was so excited and she only twelve imagine what she will be like when she gives it all up but fat chance he would have to grab that piece since his quick spurt, his sperm, his cum, had gotten all over her dress and she was pissed off at him when it dried and got all crusty on the way home so some other guy would grab her cherry-that was only a matter of time), wished he could get “washed clean,” washed clean real clean which is what the guys around school called it when their Lucindas moved their hands fast, get his sperm count down, his hot flash temperature, whatever that was.
Cock sore, cock was what the guys called their hanging things, their pulsating penises, so he followed although he got flushed when some guy maybe Billy, Billy Bradley the guy who always seemed to be the first guy with the sex knowledge, first said the word and he had asked what that was-damn. Cock and cocksuckers, waiting on his corner boy, waiting on Billy, waiting on his secret comrade in arms the hazy night as he looked around over heaven’s nightshade (and the guy who would probably be the first to get into Lucinda’s panties since she had already given him her fast hand action and according to Billy something more although Billy wouldn’t specify but at least that action which is why he had, on Billy’s solemn advise taken Lucinda to the movies in the first place, had asked if she wanted to go to the balcony and when she said yes he knew he was going to get his clock cleaned-he just wished he hadn’t gotten off so fast with Lucinda since Billy’s older brother, Max, had given them a vivid description of what was what when you got a girl all wet and then stuck your stick in her and listened to her moan, moan like humankind had been doing for a million years, and he sure could have put his stick wherever she wanted it-probably laugh at him if he got off too fast-again).
Billy at first nowhere to be found, nowhere to be found that is if he did not want to be found and then the next thing you knew Billy, secret comrade in arms, came sauntering, his style just then before puberty would turn his feet around and he would thereafter walk like some Western movie cowboy would now sing his life-song, what did the poet, the old Solomonic poet call to the high heaven’s, oh yes, plainsong for a candid world, a world before massive bombings, massive unacknowledged deaths for shady ladies and other figment s of his imagination. Come sauntering in the bejesus night looking both ways to see some straggling ungainly girls, some young Lucinda who knew the score, knew if they had hung around that back of the school just then that they had heard about Lucinda, had maybe asked their older sisters or brothers what a hand job was and how to do that. They were eager if they were hanging in the shadows and the dope was hoping that some innocent would get moved by the Billy plainsong (he would learn later that plainsong was more religious that any old rock song even big bop doo wop song but by then rock and roll was his religion anyway) hovering around the fence waiting for something, anything to happen and then a word, a sullen word came off his tongue and the night’s work had begun, maybe a generation was on its way to immortality, was ready to break out of the quiet of the 1950s night without shame and without confession.
Tripping over “she’s so fine, so fine, wish she were mine doo lang doo lang” or the corner boys, the male version of He’s So Fine by the Chiffons, the big bopping song of 1956, the guys, including the dope, backing Billy up in the doo wop frenzy that had swept tween and teen just then and the scent of the jasmine coming from the girl-shadows by the harbor, the marsh’s fetid mephitic smell giving way to the night’s splendor, maybe stolen perfumes from mother’s dresser or some girlish bath-soap all fresh and dewy. Doo lang, doo lang along with Eddie, Jason, Frank and beloved Peter Paul slapping time and those wanderlust girls along the fences came drifting to the scent of Old Spice that the boys had splashed on father’s bureau, father’s time, father’s sweat but not to be thought of in the hazy summer night. And as the moon hovered against the sun the girls got closer and closer, one Lucinda’s younger sister, Laura, all the sisters in that family playing off mother Lottie having “L” –encrusted first letter names, aimed his way and he waved her over to head toward old dead sailors’ graveyard down the far corner of the school lot (oh what those sailors could have told those young bucks from their rotted graves and pock-marked burial stones about hand jobs and blow jobs too when the ante was up about what a girl had to come across with-and if out to sea some young sailor boy plaything but that latter knowledge would not click until later). A few minutes later the dope came back out of the sailor shadows looking like the king of the hill and Laura wiping her hand with a handkerchief with a faint smile (they had already agreed to meet that next night down at that sailors’ last rest, down among the mortal stone forsaking the last ship out and by-past the foreplay plainsong-the young learn fast so maybe those sailors would have been stating the obvious when the poured forth in their dank, damp waterfront taverns about blow jobs and hand jobs).
But hell all that was coming of age, coming of age in a time when things were moving too fast even for quick learners and the corner boys got further and further along in their primitive sex lessons and no more stupid thoughts of red scares, Uncle Joe’s scourge in Moscow town, and Cold War down in the basement hide your ass under some oaken desk and somebody said that was real, that was okay but that scent lingered against the jimson in the jeans from Satan’s tower, look homeward, look homeward angels. Ecstasy-pure ecstasy in the hazy night of some youthful dream.
Billy would declare (and the dope would secretly agree and write every word down to be passed around later like some latter day glad tiding-like some Mount Sinai-filched grainy stone tablet) that they were in a spin, the world was changing and although he had no empirical evidence, when did the king of the hill need hard-boiled evidence going back to Adam’s time, facts, he had heard from his oldest brother who already had graduated from high school that not only was the music changing, not only were people, and not just kids, starting to laugh at the idea that going down some rat hole of a basement and hiding under some rotten oaken desk when the big one came [the bomb] would do anybody any good. Started to challenge everything from the whole idea of the red scare night, the whole idea that everybody needed to live their ticky-tacky lives in dread of the reds, having a big ass finned gas-eating car and not “keeping up with the Jones.” Especially day to day the latter.
Billy didn’t get most of what that oldest brother said (and neither did the dope who dutifully wrote it all down anyway which he had “contracted” with his secret comrade Billy to do, to act as scribe which became his nickname at first resented as part of the price of Billy letting a dope hang around with him and his boys and through that circumstance to get to the girls already mentioned above) but he did get that the way things were couldn’t be the future, couldn’t be the way they would have to operate in the world. Couldn’t be the down at the heel existence that he, his family and all the poor bedraggled families that resided in the Five Points “wrong side of the tracks” neighborhood. His oldest brother, Jack to give him a name, the guy telling him all this stuff with the idea of making him wise to the world he was about to face in the not too distant future, had been something of the family rebel.
Jack was always heading to Harvard Square even in high school which was no mean task by bus and later by car when he came of age for a driver’s license, since that place was about forty miles from Riverdale to soak up whatever rebellion was going down (that family rebel designation would fall on Billy later in a very different way when it came his turn to figure out the freaking world and after a short attempt at a break-out rock and roll musical career turned to armed robberies and such eventually getting killed in a shoot- out with cops down in North Carolina trying to all doped up rob a White Hen convenience store). Jack was always talking about “beat” this, “beat” that, some kind of fraternity of rebels who wanted to turn the world upside down (and it was mostly a fraternity the women were mainly around for decoration and whatever sex they wanted to provide). Or maybe better resign from the “square” world and find a little breathing space to do their thing-to write, drink, travel, do dope, have sex but mostly to write for a candid world, a world where the rules didn’t make sense-no way.
One night when Jack was home for minute during summer semester break from college-he went on a scholarship, how else would the family get the money to send the first in the family to go to college, to Boston University, Class of 1959- he decided to tell Billy and his boys in an excited manner his latest tale “what was what,” the expression all the guys used then to signify, well, they had an idea of what was what. Tell them what it was to be a “beat daddy” (not literally a daddy okay but Jack had had to make the distinction because you never knew when somebody in the neighborhood might be a daddy having knocked up some older Lucinda and had to head out of town or get hitched under the sign of the paternal shotgun). Said it was all summed up, everything that was pushing the world forward in a poem, a “beat” poem not like those rhyming simon poems Mister Riley, the old-time Jazz Age English teacher at Riverdale High a would spout forth from some old Englishman’s pen, Alfred Lord Tennyson or Byron or Browning, guys like that, a guy named Ginsburg, Allen Ginsburg, a smart Jewish guy who was the chief propagandist for the beat-ness thing in a poem, Howl, that was making the rounds in Harvard Square and would have its fair share of legal problems but that was later. (Jack was not exactly right about who had been the “real” max daddy of the beats-influence wise it was probably Jack Kerouac when he boiled the 1950s youth nation with his wild men travelogue On The Road, the immediate post-war whirlwind adventures of him and his buddy, Adonis personified Neal Cassady with Ginsburg playing a bit role in that one. But Ginsburg was right in the mix with that fucking long mad monk poem-Brother Jack’s exact words remembered by the Scribe-written down).
Jack said that Ginsburg had had it right-had seen in the great American blue-pink western night stuff that would drive a guy crazy with what was happening to the world as the machine was getting the upper-hand. Ginsburg had had some kind of vision, one of the guys who hung around the Hayes-Bickford in Harvard claiming that it was dope, marijuana favored by the down-trodden cold fields braceros from old Mexico, or peyote buttons, the stuff favored by the Hopis and the “ghost dancers” out where the states are square that fueled the visions. Visions of an unkempt, unruly world where the philosopher-king was a guy named Carlo Solomon who had the whole thing down cold. Knew the West had been saturated, that there was nowhere else to go but the China seas and so he hammered home the idea that out in the Coast was where humankind had to make a last stand against the Molochs, against the fucking night-takers who have been with us forever. Only the righteous warrior-poets would enter the garden. That Hayes-Bickford clarion calling claimed Ginsburg was talking about the Garden of Eden before the Fall.
The madness, the sheer madness making everybody from the hunger days of the 1930s and the rat rationing days of World War II hustle to the sound of steel and iron and not the freaking sound of waves slashing timidly to shore. Started ripping up words a minute not all complete phrases and without some kind of formal pacing sense, although if you heard the thing out loud it would have its own jazz-like cadence somebody who was at the recital in Frisco town had been quoted in a newspaper as saying, jazz cadence and stoned on dope or liquor was all you needed that same source ventured. Ginsburg was not hung up on form, like those old fart Englishman who were totally hung up on form almost as bad as those sonnet bastards Riley made the class memorize but talking about post-war modern minds beaten down by the sound of industry humming away talking about a meltdown, talking crazy stuff about angel hipsters (portraying a sentence of 1940s pre-beat daddies hanging around Times Square hustling and conning an unsuspecting world), talking about Negro streets which they all knew as “n----r streets” over in the Acre section of Boston, a place to stay away from, talking about taking on the monster in the mist Moloch mano y mano, talking about the new heroes of the American night all-American swordsman Jack and secret love that dare not speak its name crush on Adonis of the New Western night courtesy of Laramie Street in mile-high Denver Neal Cassady to be exact the new model of the last cowboy standing. Neal some amazing cocksman to be envied and emulated screwing every honey who was not tied down to a chastity belt on farms, in the restrooms of diners and out in the back alley if the restroom was occupied. Damn.
Ginsburg had actually been in the nut house in New York someplace, had dedicated the poem to some fellow inmate who was crazier that he was or dedicated to all the crazies, the looney bin Jack had called the place like the place all the guys in Riverdale did when they talked about where screwballs and goofs, even Kerouac’s holy goofs learned about later, should have landed, so he knew what deal was going down, knew that America had turned into a cesspool even if nobody else saw the drain coming. Jack had made Billy and the dope laugh when he told them the reason Ginsburg was in the looney bin was he had been sent there by some judge after he got into legal trouble, committed or was present at some unknown crime, an event which made the pair respect this Ginsburg more since cons in the old Riverdale neighborhood were looked up to with respect and admiration, to try to get rid of his faggot-ness, his homosexuality, his liking boys and not girls. (They laughed not because they knew that Jack hated fags and queers which he did and had put paid to that idea having gone down to Provincetown where all the fags and queers hung out all dressed up and all leering at anybody who came off the Provincetown boat from Boston with his own boys and raised hell with them-more than once. Beat a couple up who were eyeing him too closely and one in drag whom he thought was a girl until he got close enough to see some slight stubble on “her” face. Seems that Jack was giving Ginsburg a pass on his sexual preference just because he was a beat guy-Billy and the dope wouldn’t have given the fucker the time of day even if the guy was a prophet if he hadn’t been a con when they talked about it later since they shared Jack’s hatred of fags-and dykes like every red-blooded guy did then.)
Jack knew what the unholy kid goofs were laughing about, about his seeing literary merit even if the guy was a faggot. The minute he said “faggot” he knew they would goof but he thought they should know what else the guy had to say. He told them a lot of good writers and poets were “light on their feet” and that was something you had to deal with if you wanted to read anything worth reading and let the faggot stuff slide, you don’t have to meet them in person anyway. So he told Billy and the dope to forget the stuff he said about Ginsburg’s queer as a three dollar bill situation and “dig” (that was the word Jack used) what he had to say to the world, to the young really. The stuff about machines devouring humankind and making the world crazier than it already was. That maybe the guys in mental hospitals like the ones who were his comrades at the time were the sane ones-that what they knew was too powerful to let them stay out on the mean streets for long. That the Molochs were in charge (“what the fuck is a Moloch,” Billy asked, interrupting, not comprehending what Jack was talking about as he droned on about stuff that seemed weird). Tried to tell the kids that this thing was Ginsburg plainsong, his way of putting in raw language his spiritual trip, his karma on the world. (the dope would run into Ginsburg later at an anti-war rally in New York City in his later incantation as a Buddhist so karma was the right word even though they were clueless about what it really meant in Buddhist traditions).
After about fifteen minutes Jack could see his audience’s eyes glazing over and so he stopped, stopped and told them that when they got his age they would be thinking about all the stuff Ginsburg laid out in that not-fit-for-public-school-classrooms poem. They laughed, snickered really and wondered what Lucinda and Laura were up to just then. The hell with Jack and his fucking homo poem.
An Idea Whose Time Has Come-Divest From The Pentagon-Now!Build The Resistance!
Frank Jackman comment:
As I pointed out in the headline the idea of “divesting” from the deadweight of the Pentagon overlay on society’s resources is the beginning of wisdom. Hell, a nice idea until you figure out that the military-industrial complex that old-time President Eisenhower, a recipient of much military largess in his time, railed against is degrees of magnitude far greater than the “skimpy” role it played in society in his day. For leftist militants, for anti-imperialist fighters, heck, for just rational people the real beginning of wisdom is to not to “tweak” this or that aspect of the complex but to smash it, smash it utterly. There is no other way so when you thing about this slogan-think about what is behind it. The task. Think too that you will be about being a slayer of some very big monster-and there will be blowback. For now that is enough said.
An Idea Whose Time Has Come-Divest From The Pentagon-Now! -Build The Resistance!
As We Enter The 100th Anniversary Of The Last Year Of World War I- Francis Tolliver’s “Christmas In The Trenches”-A Comment
My name is Francis Tolliver. I come from Liverpool Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here I fought for King and country I love dear It was Christmas in the trenches where the frost so bitter hung The frozen field of France were still, no Christmas song was sung Our families back in England were toasting us that day Their brave and glorious lads so far away I was lyin' with my mess-mates on the cold and rocky ground When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound Says I "Now listen up me boys", each soldier strained to hear As one young German voice sang out so clear "He's singin' bloddy well you know", my partner says to me Soon one by one each German voice joined in in harmony The cannons rested silent. The gas cloud rolled no more As Christmas brought us respite from the war As soon as they were finished a reverent pause was spent 'God rest ye merry, gentlemen' struck up some lads from Kent The next they sang was 'Stille Nacht". "Tis 'Silent Night'" says I And in two toungues one song filled up that sky "There's someone commin' towards us" the front-line sentry cried All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shone on that plain so bright As he bravely strode, unarmed, into the night Then one by one on either side walked into no-mans-land With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand We shared some secret brandy and wished each other well And in a flare-lit soccer game we gave 'em hell We traded chocolates, cigarettes and photgraphs from home These sons and fathers far away from families of their own Young Sanders played his squeeze box and they had a violin This curious and unlikely band of men Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night "whose family have I fixed within my sights?" It was Christmas in the trenches where the frost so bitter hung The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war Had been crumbled and were gone for ever more My name is Francis Tolliver. In Liverpool I dwell Each Christmas come since World War One I've learned it's lessons well That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame And on each end of the rifle we're the same
-- John McCutcheon "Christmas in the trenches
By Alex Radley
Jim Anderson’s great-grandfather whom Jim just barely knew before he passed away was very proud of his military service in World War I with what he always called Pershing’s American Expeditionary Force. And for a long time, certainly as long as he lived Jim was on his knee proud too. Jim’s grandfather in his turn was proud, quietly proud not speaking much about his experiences in the Pacific war part of World War II as was common among that generation according to Jim’s father who told him very little when he questioned his father about the medals that were tucked in a family chest covered in a heavy clothe jacket. Jim’s father in his turn, also quiet about the specific of his service in Vietnam, would say that overall whatever the “damn,” his word when he mentioned that war, purpose of fighting that war was which still eluded him that he was proud of his service. But Jim remembered distinctly nights when he would hear his father being consoled by his mother when he woke up screaming with what must have been nightmares although like Jim said not much was spoken about the matter. And Jim for a long time, having no reason to doubt it, held all of this family pride in his person. As much as a person who did not serve could. Then his generation’s war, the Iraq war of 2003 came and although Jim had no inclination to join up to fight what his grandfather called “the heathens” he did have to think, or better rethink some stuff about war, and guts and glory, and about the horrible waste.
All of this was aided by his then girlfriend, Susan, whom he called Susan of the Flowers since she had that retro-something out of the 1960s hippie look, and who was now his wife who was fervently against the Iraq war build-up and dragged him along with her when they were students at Michigan. Peace, really pacifism, came easily to Susan since she had been brought up a Friend, a Quaker, although she was “lapsed” if you can be in such a society unlike Jim’s own Catholicism where he would make people laugh (not his parents though) by saying being lapsed was almost a sign of grace. Jim remembered the first time that she gave him a copy of Christmas in the Trenches he was shocked, great-grandfather- derived shocked that enemy soldiers, close quarter combatants would call their own short haul “truce” in that World War I that he had been so proud of. That got Jim looking into the matter more closely especially when after all the protesting they had done (along with millions of others throughout the world) in the build-up to the Iraq War Bush II went ahead and blew the place apart for what turned out to be no reason at all. “Fake information” in today’s fevered newsprint world.
World War I was an important watershed in the history of war because with the strategy of trench warfare on the ground killing would be done for the first time on an industrial scale (although for its day, especially at Cold Harbor, the American Civil War would give a gruesome preview of what was to come when things got out of hand. What had started out as something of a “jolly little show” quickly over by Christmas 1914 assumed by all sides including organizations like the international social democracy which had clamored for a decade or more before the guns started firing but who bowed to the nationalist fervor of their respective countries when the first shots rang out. And so Christmas in the trenches, several Christmases as it turned out. So that little soldierly truce story which Susan would keep bringing to his attention each year when he needed an example of a small break from the madness down at the base, down where the guys fought the “damn” thing (this “damn” Jim’s).
After having completely failed to stop the Iraq war in 2003 Jim started what has now become a long if sporadic investigation of what could have made a difference, what could have stopped the madness in its tracks and that would always bring him back to those soldiers down at the base, down there in the killing fields of France. Not at the base of the Iraq war since there was very little dissension at the time in the ranks of the all-volunteer army and National Guard units sent to do the dirty work, the “walk-over.” Not the small action of the truce in in Christmas in the trenches but a little later, toward 1917 when all hell broke loose in Russia. A Russia whose armies were melting away on the Eastern Front. Melting away, and who knows to what extent before the February Revolution exposed the house of cards, with agitation from the Bolsheviks who Jim had believed in good family anti-communist from believed were the source of all evil in the world to hear his grandfather speak on the subject.
Ideology aside, as hard as that is to dismiss in this kind of situation, the Bolsheviks had a hard and fast policy that their youth essentially would not volunteer to go in the Czar’s peasant-build Army but if drafted (dragooned really) they were to go and see what they could do in their units when and if a chance came up to break the stalemate. This was a very different policy from the individual acts of resistance, refusal to be drafted, that were epidemic during his father’s war which included many friends of Susan’s parents who were not Quakers but didn’t want to fight in an immoral war. Jim very carefully approached his father about what he thought of those draft resisters. His answer startled Jim when he said for a long time he held a very big grudge against the draft dodgers he called them but more recently he believed that they may have been right after all. Told Jim a story about a couple of guys in his unit in Pleiku who wanted the unit to refuse to go out on some half-baked mission. They quickly wound up in Long Binh Jail, LBJ, as it was called and the unit went out anyway and sustained heavy loses, got him wounded the first time. His father didn’t know what happened to those guys except he hoped they survived but even with them he said they probably were right. Maybe if a couple more guys had stuck with them something could have happened. Yes, Jim thought when he was thinking about it later, but that was music for some future. For now we have that little dust-up one Francis Tolliver Christmas.
From The Gals And Guys Who Know The Face Of War Up Close And Personal-The Iraq And Afghan War Veterans
Frank Jackman comment:
In America there is an overweening respect for the military, for military officers mainly, the guys and gals who lead the bloody endless wars of this century. They look good on camera, all austere and all business as they lead the general population by the nose into the next ambush. But starting back in Vietnam, starting back in the war of my generation soldiers, sailors, air personnel, regular rank and file guys (almost all guys then) started balking at their fate. Started to talk back, to say stop the madness. And if they could not do it, or would not, since the choice or the stockade and/or opprobrium back home was a hard fact of life for most working class guys, when they were service-bound they certainly did after they got out. Formed an organization Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW) that did a hell of a lot to bring the anti-war message home. See they had “street cred”,’ they had been in the hellholes and beyond, had come back to the “real world” a lot wiser than the kids who went in with dreams of glory and fistfuls of medals. The guys and gals who fought, and continue to fight don’t forget, the damn Iraq and Afghan wars have that same “street cred.” Listen up, please.
The Hills And Hollas Of Home- In Honor Of The Late Hazel Dickens
By Lance Lawrence
Kenny
Jackman heard the late Hazel Dickens (d. 2011) for the very first time on her
CD album It’s Hard To Tell The Singer From The Song some years back,
maybe 2005, when he was in thrall to mountain music after being hit hard by
Reese Witherspoon’s role as June Carter in the film Walk The Line. At
that time he got into all things Carter Family unto the nth generation. A
friend, a Vermont mountain boy, hipped him to Hazel during his frenzy and he
picked up the CD second-hand in Harvard Square. (Really at Sandy’s located
between Harvard and Central Squares, a folk institution around town where until
recently Sandy had held forth since the early 1960s folk minute when everybody
was desperately looking for roots music and that was the place to look first.
Hazel’s You’ll Get No More Of Me, A Few Old Memories and the classic Hills
of Home knocked him out. The latter, moreover, seemed kind of familiar and
later, a couple of months later, he finally figured out why. He had really
first heard Hazel back in 1970 when he was down in the those very hills and
hollows that are a constant theme in her work, and that of the mountain mist
winds music coming down the crevices. What was going on though? Was it 2005
when he first heard Hazel or that 1970 time? Let me go back and tell that 1970
story.
Kenny
Jackman like many of his generation of ’68 was feeling foot loose and fancy
free, especially after he had been mercifully declared 4-F by his friendly
neighbors at the local draft board in old hometown North Adamsville (declared
4-F in those high draft days because he had a seriously abnormal foot problem
which precluded walking very far, a skill that the army likes its soldiers to
be able to do). So Kenny, every now and again, took to the hitchhike road, not
like his mad man friend Peter Paul Markin with some heavy message purpose a la
Jack Kerouac and his beat brothers (and a few sisters) but just to see the
country while he, and it, were still in one piece no pun intended Kenny told me
since the country was in about fifteen pieces then).
On
one of these trips he found himself stranded just outside Norfolk, Virginia at
a road-side campsite. Feeling kind of hungry one afternoon, and tired, tired
unto death of camp-side gruel and stews he stopped at a diner, Billy Bob
McGee’s, an old-time truck stop diner a few hundred yards up the road from his
camp for some real food, maybe meatloaf or some pot roast like grandma used to
make or that was how it was advertised. When he entered the mid-afternoon
half-empty diner he sat down at one of the single stool counter seats that
always accompany the vinyl-covered side booths in such places. But all of this
was so much descriptive noise that could describe a million, maybe more, such
eateries. What really caught his attention though was a waitress serving them “off
the arm” that he knew immediately he had to “hit” on (although that is not the
word used in those days but “hit on” conveys what he was up to in the universal
boy meets girl world). As it turned out she, sweetly named Fiona Fay, and, well
let’s just call her fetching, Kenny weary-eyed fetching, was young, footloose
and fancy free herself and had drawn a bead on him as he entered the place,
and, …well this story is about Hazel, so let us just leave it as one thing led
to another and let it go at that.
Well,
not quite let’s let it go at that because when Kenny left Norfolk a few days
later one ex-waitress Fiona Fay was standing by his side on the road south. And
the road south was leading nowhere, nowhere at all except to Podunk, really
Prestonsburg, Kentucky, and really, really a dink town named Pottsville, just
down the road from big town Prestonsburg, down in the hills and hollows of
Appalachia, wind-swept green, green, mountain mist, time forgotten . And the
reason two footloose and fancy free young people were heading to Podunk is that
a close cousin of Fiona’s lived there with her husband and child and wanted
Fiona to come visit (visit “for a spell” is how she put it but I will spare the
reader the localisms). So they were on that hell-bend road but Kenny, Kenny was
dreading this trip and only doing it because, well because Fiona was the kind
of young woman, footloose and fancy free or not, that you followed, at least
you followed if you were Kenny Jackson and hoped things would work out okay.
What
Kenny dreaded that day was that he was afraid to confront his past. And that
past just then entailed having to go to his father’s home territory just up the
road in Hazard. See Kenny saw himself as strictly a Yankee, a hard “we fought
to free the slaves and incidentally save the union” Yankee for one and all to
see back in old North Adamsville. And denied, denied to the high heavens, that
he had any connection with the south, especially the hillbilly south that
everybody was making a fuse about trying to bring into the 20th century around
that time. And here he was with a father with Hazard, Kentucky, the poorest of
the poor hillbillies, right on his birth certificate although Kenny had never
been there before. Yeah, Fiona had better be worth it.
Kenny
had to admit, as they picked up one lonely truck driver ride after another (it
did not hurt in those days to have a comely lass standing on the road with you
in the back road South, or anywhere else, especially if you had longish hair
and a wisp of a beard), that the country was beautiful. As they entered coal
country though and the shacks got crummier and crummier he got caught up in
that 1960s Michael Harrington Other America no running water, outhouse,
open door, one window and a million kids and dogs running around half-naked,
the kids that is vision. But they got to Pottsville okay and Fiona’s cousin and
husband (Laura and Stu) turned out to be good hosts. So good that they made
sure that Kenny and Fiona stayed in town long enough to attend the weekly dance
at the old town barn (red of course, run down and in need of paint to keep red
of course) that had seen such dances going back to the 1920s when the Carter
Family had actually come through Pottsville on their way back to Clinch
Mountain.
Kenny
buckled at the thought, the mere thought, of going to some Podunk Saturday
night “hoe-down” and tried to convince Fiona that they should leave before
Saturday. Fiona would have none of it and so Kenny was stuck. Actually the
dance started out pretty well, helped tremendously by some local “white
lightning” that Stu provided and which he failed to mention should be sipped,
sipped sparingly. Not only that but the several fiddles, mandolins, guitars,
washboards and whatnot made pretty good music. Music like Anchored in Love
and Come All You Fair And Tender Ladies, stuff that he had heard in the
folk clubs in Harvard Square when he used to hang out there in the early 1960s.
And music that even Kenny, old two left-feet, one way out of whack, draft-free
out of whack, Kenny, could dance to with Fiona.
So
Kenny was sipping, well more than sipping, and dancing and all until maybe
about midnight when this woman, this local woman came out of nowhere and began
to sing, sing like some quick, rushing wind sound coming down from the hills
and hollas (hollows for Yankees, okay, please). Kenny began to toss and turn a
little, not from the liquor but from some strange feeling, some strange
womb-like feeling that this woman’s voice was a call from up on top of these
deep green hills, now mist-filled awaiting day. And then she started into a
long, mournful version of Hills of Home, and he sensed, sensed strongly
if not anything he could articulate that he was home. Yes, Kenny Jackson,
Yankee, city boy, corner boy-bred was “home,” hillbilly home. So Kenny did
really hear Hazel Dickens for first time in 1970, see.
[As for Fiona Fay she stayed on the road with Kenny until they headed toward
the Midwest where she veered off home to Valparaiso in Indiana, her hometown as
Kenny headed west to California, to Big Sur and a different mountain ethos.
They were supposed to meet out there a couple of months later after she
finished up some family business. They never did, a not unusual occurrence of
the time when people met and faded along the way, but Kenny thought about her
and that wind-swept mountain dance night for a long time after that.]
