From The Living Archives Of Boston Veterans For Peace-They Ain't Your Grandfather's Veterans-The Push Off Of The Poor Peoples Campaign, Spring 2018

From The Living Archives Of Boston Veterans For Peace-They Ain't Your Grandfather's Veterans-The Push Off Of The Poor Peoples Campaign, Spring 2018    

By Site Manager Greg Green

     

[Ralph Morris who has lived in Troy, New York most of his life, been raised there and raised his own family there, went to war, the bloody, horrendous Vietnam War which he has made plain many times he will never live down, never get over what he did, what he saw others do, and most importantly for the long haul, what his evil government did with no remorse to people in that benighted country with whom he had no quarrel never was much for organizations, joining organizations when he was young until he came upon a group formed in the fire of the Vietnam War protests -Vietnam Veteran Against the War (VVAW) which he joined after watching a contingent of them pass by in silent march protesting the war in downtown Albany one fall afternoon. Somebody in that contingent with a microphone called out to any veterans observing the march who had had enough of war, had felt like that did to “fall in” (an old army term well if bitterly remembered). He did and has never looked back although for the past many years his affiliation has been with a subsequent anti-war veterans’ group Veterans for Peace.  

Sam Eaton, who has lived in Carver, Massachusetts, most of his life, been raised there and raised his own family there, and did not go to war. Did not go for the simple reason that due to a severe childhood accident which left him limping severely thereafter he was declared no fit for military duty, 4-F the term the local draft board used. He too had not been much for organizations, joining organizations when he was young. That is until his best friend from high school, Jeff Mullins, died in hell-hole Vietnam and before he had died asked Sam that if anything happened to him to let the world that he had done things, had seen others do things, and most importantly for the long haul, what his evil government did with no remorse to people in that benighted country with whom he had no quarrel. As part of honoring Jeff’s request after Sam found out about his death he was like a whirling dervish joining one anti-war action after another, joining one ad hoc group, each more radical than the previous one as the war ground away, ground all rational approach vapid, let nothing left but to go left, until the fateful day when he met Ralph down in Washington, D.C.

That was when both in their respective collectives, Ralph in VVAW and Sam in Cambridge Red Front, were collectively attempting one last desperate effort to end the war by closing down the government if it would not shut down the war. All they got for their efforts were tear gas, police batons, arrest bracelets and a trip to the bastinado which was the floor of Robert F. Kennedy stadium which is where they would meet after Sam noticed Ralph’s VVAW pin and told him about Jeff and his request. That experience would form a lasting friendship including several years ago Sam joining Ralph’s Veterans for Peace as a supporter, an active supporter still trying to honor his long- gone friend’s request and memory.

No one least of all either of them would claim they were organizing geniuses, far from it but over the years they participated, maybe even helped organize many anti-war events. One day their friend, Josh Breslin, who writes a by-line at this publication, and who is also a veteran asked them to send some of events they had participated in here to form a sort of living archives of the few remaining activist groupings in this country, in America who are still waging the struggle for peace.

Periodically, since we are something of a clearing house and historic memory for leftist activities, we will put their archival experiences into our archives. As mentioned above Sam and Ralph “met” each other down in Washington, D.C. during the May Day anti-war demonstrations of 1971 when out of desperation clots of anti-war radicals, veterans and civilians alike, tried unsuccessfully to shut down the government if it would not shut down the war. They “met,” their in forever quotation marks not mine, on the floor of Robert F. Kennedy football stadium after they had been arrested along with members of their respective collectives, Ralph’s VVAW and Sam’s Red Front Brigade after getting nothing but tear gas, police batons and a ride in the paddy wagon for their efforts. What they were doing, what for each of the them, according to Josh Breslin who met them shortly after they got “sprung,” also then a member of VVAW and also arrested but had been held in a D.C. city jail, were their first acts of civil disobedience. The first of a long time of such actions which is the lead in to the archival material presented in this piece.

Josh, who introduced the pair to me several years ago when I first came on board to manage the day to day operations of this publication after Allan Jackson, aging and ready to retire, brought me on board for that purpose so he could work on where the publication was heading. He mentioned the Washington action as their calling card although then, in 1971, I was about a decade too young to have realized what they were doing and how important it was for their future political trajectories, their political commitments to “fight the monster,” their term, on the questions of war and peace and other social issues. Not have realized, not having done any such actions how important civil disobedience, or the threat of such actions was, is to their political perspectives.

By the way, as Josh was at pains under pressure from Ralph and Sam, to report to me that May Day action was not the first attempt by either man to “get arrested,” to “put their bodies on the line” as Sam articulated it to me one night when we were putting this piece together. May Day was just the first time when the cops, National Guard, Regular Army was willing, with a vengeance, to take them up on the offer. Both men had tried repeatedly to get arrested “sitting down” at their respective local draft boards in Carver and Troy in order to warn off young men on signing up for the draft. Maybe it was the nature of the times but the local police would not arrest them.]

***********

From The Smedley Executive  Committee-Looking For A Few, No, Many Volunteers For The May 14^th First Action Of The Poor Peoples Campaign At The State House In Boston-use this thread to respond. 

As you may know the first, and if you don’t I will tell you here, the first nationally coordinated action of the Poor Peoples Campaign will be on the afternoon of Monday May 14^th.  (See below for Dan Lane’s “pitch” which gives general details of the spring campaign).

Smedley Butler, via the Ex Com and Dan Lane, Jeff Brill and Al Jackson as core coordinating leaders of the efforts that day in Boston has committed to coordinating the Safety Team that day. We are looking for people to attend the rally AND to help us out in the various tasks we need done to insure the event goes off smoothly, including the direct action component. The rally starts at 2 PM and the direct action at 3 PM. Volunteers should expect to arrive at the State House gathering spot which will be announced later between 12 and 1 PM and stay until the day is done which is unknown at this time. Volunteers are not to participate in the direct action component of the event. 

Jobs we need done are marshalling, de-escalators, straggler crew, liaisons with legal observers and medics, and supplies team. No hard tasks all of which will be explained in detail later.  

If you can volunteer for any of these tasks for any period of time, especially marshalling use this thread to come on board. Thanks Smedley Executive Committee.        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The 37th Or Something Like That Reincarnation Of Woody Allen’s Epic Los Angeles-New York City Battle-And A Little Romance Thrown In-Woody’s “Café Society” (2016)-A Short Film Review

The 37^th Or Something Like That Reincarnation Of Woody Allen’s Epic Los Angeles-New York City Battle-And A Little Romance Thrown In-Woody’s “Café Society” (2016)-A Short Film Review

DVD Review

By Ronan Saint James

Café Society, starring Jesse Eisenberg, Kristin Stewart, written and directed by Woody Allen, 2016

[In a recent introduction to this new series, a series based on short film reviews for films that deserve short reviews if not just a thumb’s up or down I noted that Allan Jackson, the deposed previous site manager, required his film reviewers to write endlessly about the film giving the material an almost cinema studies academic journal take on it. That caused a serious decline in the number of reviews over the years which I hope to make up with a flurry of snap reviews for busy people. To see in full why check the archives for November 28, 2018- Not Ready For Prime Time But Ready For Some Freaking Kind Of Review Film Reviews To Keep The Writers Busy And Not Plotting Cabals Against The Site Manager-Introduction To The New Series- Greg Green]

I will say this about Woody Allan, a guy can’t be too bad, can’t be too repetitious if he indulges his passions for old time bluesy, jazzy torch singers who are also into jazzing, 1920s and 1930s time frames, and be-bop Benny Goodman as an example big-time swing bands. Even if the story line of this latest production Café Society is a 37^th reincarnation of stories he did much better when he was young and hungry when he wanted to make definite statements that New York City not La-La Land was the epicenter of American cultural expression in whatever condition it found itself. That said this retread still had its points. 

Naturally poor Woody, oops, Bobby, was tired of New York for a minute decided to see the world and headed to Hollywood where a successful talent agent uncle might help him get a leg up in the movie business-maybe follow in “Unk’s” footsteps. Before he could get that leg up though he found his soulmate or who he thought would play that role-as naturally some gentile woman from the Midwest, here Nebraska but you name the vanilla state and can plug it in. So Woody certainly could never have been accused of not rushing headlong into the eternal film saver-boy meets girl trope that has kept many a film from the delete button of late.

That said here is the play once Bobby gets out from under the New York scene (I would not be telling any tales out of school to note that he would scurry back before too long with his tail between his legs-okay) and into the wilds of Hollywood he finds that true love, his uncle’s assistant, receptionist I don’t know what he put down on his tax returns but something to cover the fact that Von, dear Von, is his uncle’s mistress if anybody can use that term anymore with a strange glance. Uncle is ready to ditch wife and all except for a time he dithers and that will give our Bobby his opening. Except (always the Woody “excepts”) when push came to shove and it was mano a mano on who Von was going to marry she went with the uncle. Fast forward: a bunch of years later both Bobby and Von met at some social event in New York and while they did not get it on or anything like that they were both very wistful after departing. Like what might have been. After three divorces and a bunch of affairs that sentiment hit me square in the eye. Again. We are doing short film reviews these days under strict orders from the “boss,” his designation of himself so that is it.

When The Bad Guys Come You Want Sean Connery On The Case -Once Against The Bad Guys Fall Into The Abyss-Sean Connery’s “Presidio” (1988)-A Film Review

When The Bad Guys Come You Want Sean Connery On The Case -Once Against The Bad Guys Fall Into The Abyss-Sean Connery’s “Presidio” (1988)-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Leslie Dumont

   

Presidio, starring Sean Connery, Mark Harmon, 1988

Every since he was 007 James Bond the one man spy ring to save the crumbling British Empire, worth saving or not, Sean Connery has seemingly never given a bad performance. That is the case here with Presidio. Maybe it is Sean’s ruggedly handsome no nonsense looks and his bravado manner but as long as he has played the avenging angel of John Milton’s poetry or some such classic of the Greek or English literary canon he can’t go wrong. In street language he puts the hurt, the big step off on the bad guys. No questions asked, no quarter given.

Of course now, in 2018, the Presidio which brought either terror to young Army recruits when it was a point of debarkation for the hellish war in Vietnam or delight to be on the Pacific West Coast, to be in sunny and thoughtful California if you drew an assignment there, the place is mainly shut up against the Golden Gate Bridge except the golf course which devotee Si Lannon of this publication says is a bear to play (and maybe why avid golfer Connery took the role, just a thought). Of course as well a military installation close by the city streets of San Francisco is going to have some jurisdiction problems if some crime spills out from the fort to those mean streets.

That is the underlying tension between Provost Marshall, the sheriff, chief of police, in military speak played by Connery and one wild boy ex-Army MP, played by Mark Harmon, who was then working for the SF Police Department. A murder, a vicious no hold barred murder if there is any other kind, occurred on the fort and the villains fled to the streets of Frisco town after a wild chase. The murder victim a female MP who was doing her job checking out some suspicious activity at the Officers’ Club. For that she got wasted and for that our man Sean will go to the ends of the earth to find the killers.   

The big problem is why the killers were in the OC anyway, since apparently nothing was taken, nothing that seemed to be out of place. That will be the puzzle both Sean and Mark have to solve. Solved despite a serious disagreement about Mark’s budding affair with Sean’s wayward daughter who has had the angst of every military brat, civilian too come to think of it in trying to find her own identity against that titanic father force. That Mark had problems with the old man while he was an MP adds fuel to the fire.

In the end as expected the case will be solved. As it turned out the deal going down was not the drugs from Asia that I thought at first might be the reason the fort was being used as a transit point to bring the stuff into the country but diamonds, tons of them from the look of things. The cartel dragged down a few soldiers in its wake including a decorated sergeant who got caught in the middle for some problem he had over in Vietnam in the old days. Yeah, watch out bad guys when one Sean Connery comes on the screen your days are numbered.

Jean Ritchie - O Love Is Teasin'- The First Lady Of The Mountains-The First Lady Of The Hills And Hollows Wind-Swept Saturday Night Red Barn Dance-So Long, Jean Ritchie-A Belated RIP

The First Lady Of The Mountains-The First Lady Of The Hills And Hollows Wind-Swept Saturday Night Red Barn Dance-So Long, Jean Ritchie-A Belated RIP

Zack James

Earlier in bthe year (2018) I did an extended series on the role that my oldest brother, Alex, straight Alex not Alexander as you might expect, played on my early
musical development growing up in the 1970s. He, as many of the older writers who either started this publication back in the mid-1970s or were grafted onto the staff by former site manager/editor Allan Jackson have done, cut his teeth
on, or as he put it recently when commenting on the series, he was “present at the creation” of rock and roll, now called the classic age, the 1950s and early 1960s. The series was originally supposed to deal solely with that influence
channeled through him. The was before a feeling of late that other unarticulated influences based on what Alex taught me had some say in the matter. When we were discussing that feeling one night, along with a general discussion about the various threads which contributed to the genre, Alex
pulled me up short when he mentioned how “our father’s music, mountain music, hillbilly music,” had played a role in the development of rock and roll. Had also contributed to the emergence of the folk scene in the early 1960s which
Alex had also taken a small part in through his best friend, Peter Paul Markin, who was crazy for the stuff and was always sneaking over to Harvard Square, sometimes
with Alex in tow, on weekend nights. 

According to Alex, again via Markin, people, young people, some of them anyway, were looking for authentic music, roots music, traditional music. In this case music that
came over from the British Isles maybe Europe and planted itself down in the hills and hollows of Appalachia especially. There was a convergence of  “academic” interest by certain college types along with a desire to learn some new music by poring through the music down in the hills and hollows. Alex’s remarks, his placing my unarticulated feelings in a context connected to our father got me permission from the site manager, currently Greg Green, to extend that
rock and roll series to see what fit in and what didn’t from mountain music. My scurrying around looking for material got me looking straight at the music of Jean Ritchie far from rock and roll but close, very close to our father’s roots
music.

Something in her voice, in her lyrics, in her mournful playing of the dulcimer “spoke” to me, connected me with my father and where he had come from not matter that we
had been very distance from each other long before he passed away. I had heard her music before when I went through my own period of interest in folk music in
the early 1980s at a time when I had had what Alex has called my “outlaw country moment” when guys like Willie Nelson and Townes Van Zandt and gals like Jessie Logan and Emmy Lou Harris got me interested in that genre. Along the way I explored a few other sub-groups like Tex-Mex, Western Swing with Bob Wills and Milton Brown and bluegrass with the likes of Earl Monroe and Kitty Diamond. Songs from the mountains too.

So yes as Alex intuited I, we, had via some strange transplanting of DNA had turned out to be our father’s sons, had the hills and hollows, the Saturday red barn dance complete with fiddles and mandos, maybe a sweet dulcimer,  hidden in some recesses of our brains ready to come out, come out too late for us to thank him, but come out nevertheless. Which finally brings us back to why I am writing this secular elegy to Jean Ritchie. Somehow, despite paying close attention to the passing of various authors, writers, film people and singers and song-writers in this space dedicated ‘keeping the torch burning” the passing of Jean Ritchie got short shrift at the time. I make slight amends here.

Support The Class-War Prisoners During The Holidays-Support The Partisan Defense Committee’s Holiday Appeal- Help Build The Resistance

Support The Class-War Prisoners During The Holidays-Support The Partisan Defense Committee’s Holiday Appeal- Help Build The Resistance 

By Josh Breslin 

My yearly comment on behalf of the Holiday Appeal

I like to think of myself as a long-time fervent supporter of the Partisan Defense Committee, an organization committed to social and political defense cases and causes in the interests of the international working class. Cases from early on in the 1970s when the organization was founded and the committee defended the Black Panthers who were being targeted by every police agency that had an say in the matter, the almost abandoned by the left Weather Underground (in its various incantations) and Chilean miners in the wake of the Pinochet coup there in 1973 up to more recent times with the Mumia death penalty case, defense of the Occupy movement and the NATO three, and defense of the heroic Wiki-leaks whistle-blower Chelsea Manning (formerly Bradley) and more recently the courageous anti-fascist fighters who have been rounded up for protesting the alt-right, Nazi, KKK, white supremacist bastards.      

Moreover the PDC is an organization committed, at this time of the year, to raising funds to support the class-war prisoners’ stipend program through the annual Holiday Appeal drive. Unfortunately having to raise these funds in support of political prisoners for many years now, too many years, as the American and international capitalist class and their hangers-on have declared relentless war, recently a very one-sided war, against those who would cry out against the monster. Attempting to silence voices from zealous lawyers like the late Lynne Stewart, articulate death-row prisoners like Mumia and the late Tookie Williams, the Anti-fa anti-fascist street fighters to black liberation fighters like the Assata Shakur, the Omaha Three and the Angola Three and who ended up on the wrong side of a cop and state vendetta and anti-imperialist fighters like the working-class based Ohio Seven and student-based Weather Underground who took Che Guevara’s admonition to wage battle inside the “belly of the beast” seriously. Of course a couple of years ago  we lost Hugo Pinell, George Jackson’s comrade-in-arms from the San Quentin Six to a murderous vendetta. Others, other militant labor and social liberation fighters as well, too numerous to mention here but remembered.

Normally I do not need any prompting in the matter. One year though, and it now bears repeating each year, after I read the 25th Anniversary Appeal article in Workers Vanguard No. 969 I was startled to note how many of the names, organizations, and political philosophies mentioned there hark back to my own radical coming of age, and the need for class-struggle defense of all our political prisoners in the late 1960s (although I may not have used that exact term at the time).

That recognition included names like black liberation fighter George Jackson’s present class-war prisoner the late Hugo Pinell’s San Quentin Six comrade; the Black Panthers in their better days, the days when the American state really was out to kill or detain every last supporter, and in the days when we needed, desperately needed, to fight for their defense in places from Oakland to New Haven,  as represented by two of the Omaha Three (Poindexter and the late wa Langa), in their younger days; the struggle, the fierce struggle, against the death penalty as represented in Mumia’s case today (also Black Panther-connected); the Ohio 7 and the Weather Underground who, rightly or wrongly, were committed to building a second front against American imperialism, and who most of the left, the respectable left, abandoned; and, of course, Leonard Peltier and the Native American struggles from Pine Ridge to the Southwest. It has been a long time and victories few. I could go on but you get the point.

That point also includes the hard fact that we have paid a high price, a very high price, for not winning back in the late 1960s and early 1970s when we last had this capitalist imperialist society on the ropes. Maybe it was political immaturity, maybe it was cranky theory, maybe it was elitism, hell, maybe it was just old-fashioned hubris but we let them off the hook. And have had to fight forty years of rear-guard “culture wars” since just to keep from falling further behind.

And the class-war prisoners, our class-war prisoners, have had to face their “justice” and their prisons. And this, as well, as a quick glance at the news these days should make every liberation fighter realize; the difference between being on one side of that prison wall and the other is a very close thing when the bourgeois decides to pull the hammer down. The support of class-war prisoners is thus not charity, as International Labor Defense founder James P. Cannon noted back in the 1920s, but a duty of those fighters outside the walls. Today I do my duty, and gladly. I urge others to do the same now at the holidays and throughout the year. 

The class-war prisoners must not stand alone. 

                                                                                                

PDC    

Box 99 Canal Street Station                        

New York, N.Y. 10013

Google Partisan Defense Committee for more information and updates 

Just Before The Sea Change - With The Dixie Cups Going To The Chapel Of Love In Mind

Just Before The Sea Change - With The Dixie Cups Going To The Chapel Of Love In Mind

By Lance Lawrence  

There were some things about Edward Rowley’s youthful activities that he would rather not forget, things that defined his life, gave him that fifteen minutes of fame, if only to himself and his, that everybody kept talking about that everyone deserved before they departed this life. That is what got him thinking one sunny afternoon in September about five years ago as he waited for the seasons to turn almost before his eyes about the times around 1964, around the time that he graduated from North Adamsville High School, around the time that he realized that the big breeze jail-break that he had kind of been waiting for was about to bust out over the land, over America. It was not like he was some kind of soothsayer, could read tea leaves or tarot cards like some latter day Madame La Rue who actually did read his future once down at the Gloversville Fair, read that he was made for big events anything like that back then. No way although that tarot reading when he was twelve left an impression for a while.

Edward’s take on the musical twists and turns back then is where he had something the kids at North Adamsville High would comment on, would ask him about to see which way the winds were blowing, would put their nickels, dimes and quarters in the jukeboxes to hear. See his senses were very much directed by his tastes in music, by his immersion into all things rock and roll in the early 1960s where he sensed what he called silly “bubble gum” music that had passed for rock (and which the girls liked, or liked the look of the guys singing the tunes) was going to be buried under an avalanche of sounds going back to Elvis and forward to something else, something with more guitars all amped to bring in the new dispensation. More importantly since the issue of jailbreaks and sea changes were in the air he was the very first kid to grasp what would later be called the folk minute of the early 1960s (which when the tunes, not Dylan and Baez at first but guys like the Kingston Trio started playing on the jukebox at Jimmy Jack’s Diner after school some other girls, not the “bubble gum” girls went crazy over). So that musical sense combined with his ever present sense that things could be better in this wicked old world drilled into him by his kindly old grandmother who was an old devotee of the Catholic Worker movement kind of drove his aspirations. But at first it really was the music that had been the cutting edge of what followed later, followed until about 1964 when that new breeze arrived in the land.

That fascination with music had occupied Edward’s mind since he had been about ten and had received a transistor radio for his birthday and out of curiosity decided to turn the dial to AM radio channels other that WJDA which his parents, may they rest in peace, certainly rest in peace from his incessant clamoring for rock and roll records and later folk albums, concert tickets, radio listening time on the big family radio in the living room, had on constantly and which drove him crazy. Drove him crazy because that music, well, frankly that music, the music of the Doris Days, the Peggy Lees, The Rosemary Clooneys, the various corny sister acts like the Andrews Sisters, the Frank Sinatras, the Vaughn Monroes, the Dick Haynes and an endless series of male quartets did not “jump,” gave him no “kicks,’ left him flat. As a compromise, no, in order to end the family civil war, they had purchased a transistor radio at Radio Shack and left him to his own devises.

One night, one late night in 1955, 1956 when Edward was fiddling with the dial he heard this sound out of Cleveland, Ohio, a little fuzzy but audible playing this be-bop sound, not jazz although it had horns, not rhythm and blues although sort of, but a new beat driven by some wild guitar by a guy named Warren Smith who was singing about his Ruby, his Rock ‘n’ Roll Ruby who only was available apparently to dance the night away. And she didn’t seem to care whether she danced by herself on the tabletops or with her guy. Yeah, so if you need a name for what ailed young Edward Rowley, something he could not quite articulate then call her woman, call her Ruby and you will not be far off. And so with that as a pedigree Edward became one of the town’s most knowledgeable devotees of the new sound. Problem was that new sound, as happens frequently in music, got a little stale as time went on, as the original artists who captured his imagination faded from view one way or another and new guys, guys with nice Bobby this and Bobby that names, Patsy this and Brenda that names sang songs under the umbrella name rock and roll that his mother could love. Songs that could have easily fit into that WJDA box that his parents had been stuck in since about World War II.

So Edward was anxious for a new sound to go along with his feeling tired of the same old, same old stuff that had been hanging around in the American night since the damn nuclear hot flashes red scare Cold War started way before he had a clue about what that was all about. It had started with the music and then he got caught later in high school up with a guy in school, Daryl Wallace, a hipster, or that is what he called himself, a guy who liked “kicks” although being in high school in North Adamsville far from New York City, far from San Francisco, damn, far from Boston what those “kicks” were or what he or Eddie would do about getting those “kicks” never was made clear. But they played it out in a hokey way and for a while they were the town, really high school, “beatniks.”  So Eddie had had his short faux “beat” phase complete with flannel shirts, black chino pants, sunglasses, and a black beret (a beret that he kept hidden at home in his bedroom closet once he found out after his parents had seen and heard Jack Kerouac reading from the last page of On The Road on the Steve Allen Show that they severely disapproved on the man, the movement and anything that smacked of the “beat” and a beret always associated with French bohemians and foreignness would have had them seeing “red”). And for a while Daryl and Eddie played that out until Daryl moved away (at least that was the story that went around but there was a persistent rumor for a time that Mr. Wallace had dragooned Daryl into some military school in California in any case that disappearance from the town was the last he ever heard from his “beat” brother). Then came 1964 and  Eddie was fervently waiting for something to happen, for something to come out of the emptiness that he was feeling just as things started moving again with the emergence of the Beatles and the Stones as a harbinger of what was coming. 

That is where Eddie had been psychologically when his mother first began to harass him about his hair. Although the hair thing like the beret was just the symbol of clash that Eddie knew was coming and knew also that now that he was older that he was going to be able to handle differently that when he was a kid.  Here is what one episode of the battle sounded like:                   

“Isn’t that hair of yours a little long Mr. Edward Rowley, Junior,” clucked Mrs. Edward Rowley, Senior, “You had better get it cut before your father gets back from his conference trip, if you know what is good for you.” That mothers’-song was being endlessly repeated in North Adamsville households (and not just those households either but in places like North Adamsville, Hullsville, Shaker Heights, Dearborn, Cambridge any place where guys were waiting for the new dispensation and wearing hair a little longer than boys’ regular was the flash point) ever since the British invasion had brought longer hair into style (and a little less so, beards, that was later when guys got old enough to grow one without looking wispy, had taken a look at what their Victorian great-grandfathers grew and though it was “cool.” Cool along with new mishmash clothing and new age monikers to be called by.).

Of course when one was thinking about the British invasion in the year 1964 one was not thinking about the American Revolution or the War of 1812 but the Beatles. And while their music has taken 1964 teen world by a storm, a welcome storm after the long mainly musical counter-revolution since Elvis, Bo, Jerry Lee and Chuck ruled the rock night and had disappeared without a trace, the 1964 parent world was getting up in arms.

And not just about hair styles either. But about midnight trips on the clanking subway to Harvard Square coffeehouses to hear, to hear if you can believe this, folk music, mountain music, harp music or whatever performed by long-haired (male or female), long-bearded (male), blue jean–wearing (both), sandal-wearing (both), well, for lack of a better name “beatniks” (parents, as usual, being well behind the curve on teen cultural movements since by 1964 “beat”  except on silly television shows and “wise” social commentary who could have been “Ike” brothers and sisters, was yesterday’s news).

Mrs. Rowley would constantly harp about “why couldn’t Eddie be like he was when he listened to Bobby Vinton and his Mr. Lonely or that lovely-voiced Roy Orbison and his It’s Over and other nice songs on the local teen radio station, WMEX (he hated that name Eddie by the way, Eddie was also what everybody called his father so you can figure out why he hated the moniker just then). Now it was the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and a cranky-voiced guy named Bob Dylan that has his attention. And that damn Judy Jackson with her short skirt and her, well her… looks” (Mrs. Rowley like every mother in the post-Pill world refusing to use the “s” word, a throw-back to their girlish days when their mothers did not use such a word.)     

Since Mrs. Rowley, Alice to the neighbors, was getting worked up anyway, she let out what was really bothering her about her Eddie’s behavior, "What about all the talk about doing right by the down-trodden Negros down in Alabama and Mississippi. And you and that damn Peter Dawson, who used to be so nice when all you boys hung around together at Jimmy Jacks’ Diner [Edward: corner boys, Ma, that is what we were] and I at least knew you were no causing trouble, talking about organizing a book drive to get books for the little Negro children down there. If your father ever heard that there would be hell to pay, hell to pay and maybe a strap coming out of the closet big as you are. Worst though, worst that worrying about Negros down South is that treasonous talk about leaving this country, leaving North Adamsville, defenseless against the communists with your talk of nuclear disarmament. Why couldn’t you have just left well enough alone and stuck with your idea of forming a band that would play nice songs that make kids feel good like Gale Garnet’s We’ll Sing In The Sunshine or that pretty Negro girl Dionne Warwick and Her Walk On By instead of getting everybody upset."

And since Mrs. Rowley, Alice, to the neighbors had mentioned the name Judy Jackson, Edward’s flame and according to Monday morning before school girls’ “lav” talk, Judy’s talk they had “done the deed” and you can figure out what the deed was let’s hear what was going on in the Jackson household since one of the reasons that Edward was wearing his hair longer was because Judy thought it was “sexy” and so that talk of doing the deed may well have been true if there were any sceptics. Hear this:      

“Young lady, that dress is too short for you to wear in public, take it off, burn it for all I care, and put on another one or you are not going out of this house,” barked Mrs. James Jackson, echoing a sentiment that many worried North Adamsville mothers were feeling (and not just those mothers either but in places like Gloversville, Hullsville, Shaker Heights, Dearborn, Cambridge any place where gals were waiting for the new dispensation and wearing their skirts a little longer than mid-calf was the flash point) about their daughters dressing too provocatively and practically telling the boys, well practically telling them you know what as she suppressed the “s” word that was forming in her head. She too working up a high horse head of steam continued, "And that Eddie [“Edward, Ma,” Judy keep repeating every time Mrs. Jackson, Dorothy to the neighbors, said Eddie], and his new found friends like Peter Dawson taking you to those strange coffeehouses in Harvard Square with all the unwashed, untamed, unemployed “beatniks” instead of the high school dances on Saturday night. And that endless talk about the n-----s down South, about get books for the ignorant to read and other trash talk about how they are equal to us, and your father better not hear you talk like that, not at the dinner table since has to work around them and their smells and ignorance over in that factory in Dorchester.  And don’t start with that Commie trash about peace and getting rid of weapons. They should draft the whole bunch of them and put them over in front of that Berlin Wall. Then they wouldn’t be so negative about America."

Scene: Edward, Judy and Peter Dawson were sitting in the Club Nana in Harvard Square sipping coffee, maybe pecking at the one brownie between, and listening to a local wanna-be folk singing strumming his stuff (who turned out to be none other than Eric Von Schmidt). Beside them cartons of books that they are sorting to be taken along with them when head South this summer after graduation exercises at North Adamsville High School are completed in June. (By the way Peter’s parents were only slightly less irate about their son’s activities and used the word “Negro” when they were referring to black people, black people they wished their son definitely not to get involved with were only slightly less behind the times than Mrs. Rowley and Mrs. Jackson and so requires no separate screed by Mrs. Dawson. See Peter did not mention word one about what he was, or was not, doing and thus spared himself the anguish that Edward and Judy put themselves through trying to “relate” to their parents, their mothers really since fathers were some vague threatened presence in the background in those households.)

They, trying to hold back their excitement have already been to some training sessions at the NAACP office over on Massachusetts Avenue in the Roxbury section of Boston and have purchased their tickets for the Greyhound bus as far as New York’s Port Authority where they will meet others who will be heading south on a chartered bus. But get this Pete turned to Edward and said, “Have you heard that song, Popsicles and Icicles by the Mermaids, it has got great melodic sense.” Yes, we are still just before the sea change after which even Peter will chuckle about “bubble gum” music. Good luck though, young travelers, good luck.

From The Veterans For Peace- The Twelve Days Of......The Struggle Against The Endless American Wars

From The Veterans For Peace- The Twelve Days Of......The Struggle Against The Endless American Wars

From The Veterans For Peace- The Twelve Days Of......The Struggle Against The Endless American Wars

From The Veterans For Peace- The Twelve Days Of......The Struggle Against The Endless American Wars

From The Living Archives Of Boston Veterans For Peace-They Ain't Your Grandfather's Veterans- A Few Notes For The General Meeting On The Poor Peoples Campaign Of 1968 As Food For Thought As We Prepare From The Second And Hopefully Final Campaign in 2018

From The Living Archives Of Boston Veterans For Peace-They Ain't Your Grandfather's Veterans- A Few Notes For The General Meeting On The Poor Peoples Campaign Of 1968 As Food For Thought As We Prepare From The Second And Hopefully Final Campaign in 2018 

By Site Manager Greg Green

    

[Ralph Morris who has lived in Troy, New York most of his life, been raised there and raised his own family there, went to war, the bloody, horrendous Vietnam War which he has made plain many times he will never live down, never get over what he did, what he saw others do, and most importantly for the long haul, what his evil government did with no remorse to people in that benighted country with whom he had no quarrel never was much for organizations, joining organizations when he was young until he came upon a group formed in the fire of the Vietnam War protests -Vietnam Veteran Against the War (VVAW) which he joined after watching a contingent of them pass by in silent march protesting the war in downtown Albany one fall afternoon. Somebody in that contingent with a microphone called out to any veterans observing the march who had had enough of war, had felt like that did to “fall in” (an old army term well if bitterly remembered). He did and has never looked back although for the past many years his affiliation has been with a subsequent anti-war veterans’ group Veterans for Peace.  

Sam Eaton, who has lived in Carver, Massachusetts, most of his life, been raised there and raised his own family there, and did not go to war. Did not go for the simple reason that due to a severe childhood accident which left him limping severely thereafter he was declared no fit for military duty, 4-F the term the local draft board used. He too had not been much for organizations, joining organizations when he was young. That is until his best friend from high school, Jeff Mullins, died in hell-hole Vietnam and before he had died asked Sam that if anything happened to him to let the world that he had done things, had seen others do things, and most importantly for the long haul, what his evil government did with no remorse to people in that benighted country with whom he had no quarrel. As part of honoring Jeff’s request after Sam found out about his death he was like a whirling dervish joining one anti-war action after another, joining one ad hoc group, each more radical than the previous one as the war ground away, ground all rational approach vapid, let nothing left but to go left, until the fateful day when he met Ralph down in Washington, D.C.

That was when both in their respective collectives, Ralph in VVAW and Sam in Cambridge Red Front, were collectively attempting one last desperate effort to end the war by closing down the government if it would not shut down the war. All they got for their efforts were tear gas, police batons, arrest bracelets and a trip to the bastinado which was the floor of Robert F. Kennedy stadium which is where they would meet after Sam noticed Ralph’s VVAW pin and told him about Jeff and his request. That experience would form a lasting friendship including several years ago Sam joining Ralph’s Veterans for Peace as a supporter, an active supporter still trying to honor his long- gone friend’s request and memory.

No one least of all either of them would claim they were organizing geniuses, far from it but over the years they participated, maybe even helped organize many anti-war events. One day their friend, Josh Breslin, who writes a by-line at this publication, and who is also a veteran asked them to send some of events they had participated in here to form a sort of living archives of the few remaining activist groupings in this country, in America who are still waging the struggle for peace.

Periodically, since we are something of a clearing house and historic memory for leftist activities, we will put their archival experiences into our archives. As mentioned above Sam and Ralph “met” each other down in Washington, D.C. during the May Day anti-war demonstrations of 1971 when out of desperation clots of anti-war radicals, veterans and civilians alike, tried unsuccessfully to shut down the government if it would not shut down the war. They “met,” their in forever quotation marks not mine, on the floor of Robert F. Kennedy football stadium after they had been arrested along with members of their respective collectives, Ralph’s VVAW and Sam’s Red Front Brigade after getting nothing but tear gas, police batons and a ride in the paddy wagon for their efforts. What they were doing, what for each of the them, according to Josh Breslin who met them shortly after they got “sprung,” also then a member of VVAW and also arrested but had been held in a D.C. city jail, were their first acts of civil disobedience. The first of a long time of such actions which is the lead in to the archival material presented in this piece.

Josh, who introduced the pair to me several years ago when I first came on board to manage the day to day operations of this publication after Allan Jackson, aging and ready to retire, brought me on board for that purpose so he could work on where the publication was heading. He mentioned the Washington action as their calling card although then, in 1971, I was about a decade too young to have realized what they were doing and how important it was for their future political trajectories, their political commitments to “fight the monster,” their term, on the questions of war and peace and other social issues. Not have realized, not having done any such actions how important civil disobedience, or the threat of such actions was, is to their political perspectives.

By the way, as Josh was at pains under pressure from Ralph and Sam, to report to me that May Day action was not the first attempt by either man to “get arrested,” to “put their bodies on the line” as Sam articulated it to me one night when we were putting this piece together. May Day was just the first time when the cops, National Guard, Regular Army was willing, with a vengeance, to take them up on the offer. Both men had tried repeatedly to get arrested “sitting down” at their respective local draft boards in Carver and Troy in order to warn off young men on signing up for the draft. Maybe it was the nature of the times but the local police would not arrest them.]

A Few Notes For The General Meeting On The Poor Peoples Campaign Of 1968 As Food For Thought As We Prepare From The Second And Hopefully Final Campaign in 2018

[As many of you know this is the 50^th anniversary of the original Poor Peoples Campaign of 1968. Over the past several months to a year various individuals and organizations have organized around many of those original themes of bringing the poor into some kind of equality in this society. Over the next several weeks there will be weekly actions here locally and a mass rally in Washington around specific grievances. Smedley is knee-deep in the local planning so to give some thoughts about the original campaign is what our May GM discussion period is about. Since we have a big agenda I have written some notes so that we can go to the discussion part directly and save some time. These notes will also be in hard copy at the GM. Allan  Jackson ]  

*******

As a long ago philosopher pointed out those who do not remember history are condemned to relive it. That point is what drives this discussion about what happened to the first Poor Peoples Campaign in 1968. It does not pretend to be all-inclusive nor more than one person’s take on those times and that event.

At the most general level the original PPC was a dramatic defeat for the struggles of the poor and oppressed of this country. To understand some of the reasons behind that defeat beyond the murder of the prime mover of the campaign Doctor King will help us to push forward. In a sense the PPC was poorly timed since 1968 as many of us older activists know was a hell-bent year with the Tet offensive finally showing Americans we could not “win” in Vietnam, the refusal of the sitting president, LBJ, to run again, the two assassinations of iconic progressive figures in King and Bobby Kennedy who were in their respective ways driving forces behind the campaign, the turmoil in the streets here and internationally with the May Days in France and the chaos and horror of the Democratic Convention in the summer of that year. So the PPC had to fight for breathe against those more dramatic events and got pushed to the side rather easily especially after King’s murder and some inner turmoil and in-fighting among the leadership.

The PPC was ill-timed and ill-starred in another way. Frankly the heroic black civil rights struggle down South which brought about massive increases in voting rights and some other positive benefits did not after 1965 put much of a dent in the oppression of black people and other minorities around housing, jobs, education, healthcare and the like. With the Vietnam War sucking the life out of Lyndon Johnson’s modern day version of “forty acres and a mule” the war on poverty at a governmental level fell apart. Liberals, governmental and private citizens, began the long retreat away from governmental attempts to alleviate poverty which continues to this day witness the demise of the social welfare programs started under the Clinton administration. Moreover a reaction set in around the question of race when the cities started burning up as a result of the denial of legitimate grievances by the black community and its allies in other minority communities.

The elephant in the room though and fifty years of myth creation around the hallowed name of Doctor King cannot cover the fact up that he as a leader of the black community had lost some authority by pre-Vietnam speech 1967, has been upended by more militant blacks from various vocal anti-integrationist black nationalists to the upfront romantic if doomed Black Panthers. Think about the evolution of the previously intergrated SNCC once black power became a widespread slogan, especially among the young non-churched types. King was the number one symbol of black integration when the moods in the black community was heading elsewhere. Those of us in the military in those days got a taste of that in off-hours when there was very little interaction between the races. King through his belated and now famous anti-Vietnam War speech and his support of the sanitation workers in Memphis was making something of a “comeback” and the PPC was to be at least the symbolic way to get his agenda back on the front pages.

This political, social and personal backdrop does not take away from what was attempted, and what was necessary given the other factors particularly the retreat by the liberals from advocacy of many social programs and the hostility of others to even dealing with the poverty  problem any longer. A look at the PPC program tells us that much. It also highlights not only the social reality of the times but that like the heroic struggle for formal civils rights the poor and oppressed were going to have to fight for the better housing, healthcare, education and the like since few others were committed to their cause. The need for the poor and oppressed to lead and fight for what they need which never really happened in 1968 and is the wave of the future of the current campaigns really is the only long-term way forward in order to break the cycle of poverty and the pathologies that gut-level struggle for survival engenders. Something which grouping up in the projects I was personally painfully aware of as a kid.

A few nuts and bolts facts about the 1968 PPC will show that many of the same issues still need addressing, some of the same organizing tactics are in play as well from multiracial, multicultural meetings of poor people and their advocates which the ruling class in its constant strategy of “divide and conquer” hates to see to some programmatic demands. In March of 1968 many poverty-centered organizations like the National Welfare Rights Organization and the Southern Regional Council joined with Doctor King’s organization, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, in Atlantic to forge a common program to fight on. To list the three major demands today seems utopian (and way underestimating the money that would be needed today) but still necessary to fight around:

·        $30 billion annual appropriation for a real war on poverty

·        Congressional passage of full employment and guaranteed income legislation [a guaranteed annual wage]

·        Construction of 500,000 low-cost housing units per year until slums were eliminated

To highlight these demands the campaign would be divided into three phases, the first to create a permitted shanty town of several thousand people which came to be called Resurrection City on the National Mall, the second to begin protest demonstrations and mass non-violent civil disobedience actions and third to take actions to generate mass arrests like those which brought national attention to the plight of blacks in the South around voting rights. The latter two phases are the touchstone of the 2018 campaign as well.

To bring people to Washington several “caravans” were organized from all regions of the country to meet in June of 1968 with a big solidarity rally which brought some 50, 000 people to D.C. to join the estimated 3000 that were “residing” on the Mall.   

Bayard Rustin put forth a proposal for an “Economic Bill of Rights” for Solidarity Day that called for the federal government to most of which still are the wave of the future:

Recommit to the Full Employment Act of 1946 and legislate the immediate creation of at least one million socially useful career jobs in public service, adopt the pending housing and urban development act of 1968,  repeal the 90th Congress’s punitive welfare restrictions in the 1967 Social Security Act, extend to all farm workers the right–guaranteed under the National Labor Relations Act–to organize agricultural labor unions, and restore budget cuts for bilingual education, Head Start, summer jobs, Economic Opportunity Act, Elementary and Secondary Education Acts

I have addressed some of the problems and social conditions which helped undermine that first campaign and others can add more from their recollections of the times including the question of post-King murder leadership and in-fighting. Hopefully the latter will not be an issue in the new movement.      

       

There are some differences in the current campaign from that of 1968 that I think are worth noting as we gear up the campaign. First, if we are to be successful this time, real poor people and members of oppressed communities will have to take leadership roles, make their mistakes and learn from them. Just like we did, do. Our role is one of support to see that such leadership emerges which I believe was a real short-coming of the “professional” organizer from Doctor King on down model in 1968. Second we are “demanding” similar programs to those of 1968 but not “begging” the government to implement as some criticized the 1968 campaign for doing. Lastly, and unfortunately, there are several more issues that the 1968 campaign did not have to address as forcefully like an end to mass black and Latino incarceration and the war on drugs which has decimated communities of color and sapped it of a young, mostly male, leadership component.         

     

   

Support The Class-War Prisoners During The Holidays-Support The Partisan Defense Committee’s Holiday Appeal- Help Build The Resistance

Support The Class-War Prisoners During The Holidays-Support The Partisan Defense Committee’s Holiday Appeal- Help Build The Resistance 

By Josh Breslin 

My yearly comment on behalf of the Holiday Appeal

I like to think of myself as a long-time fervent supporter of the Partisan Defense Committee, an organization committed to social and political defense cases and causes in the interests of the international working class. Cases from early on in the 1970s when the organization was founded and the committee defended the Black Panthers who were being targeted by every police agency that had an say in the matter, the almost abandoned by the left Weather Underground (in its various incantations) and Chilean miners in the wake of the Pinochet coup there in 1973 up to more recent times with the Mumia death penalty case, defense of the Occupy movement and the NATO three, and defense of the heroic Wiki-leaks whistle-blower Chelsea Manning (formerly Bradley) and more recently the courageous anti-fascist fighters who have been rounded up for protesting the alt-right, Nazi, KKK, white supremacist bastards.      

Moreover the PDC is an organization committed, at this time of the year, to raising funds to support the class-war prisoners’ stipend program through the annual Holiday Appeal drive. Unfortunately having to raise these funds in support of political prisoners for many years now, too many years, as the American and international capitalist class and their hangers-on have declared relentless war, recently a very one-sided war, against those who would cry out against the monster. Attempting to silence voices from zealous lawyers like the late Lynne Stewart, articulate death-row prisoners like Mumia and the late Tookie Williams, the Anti-fa anti-fascist street fighters to black liberation fighters like the Assata Shakur, the Omaha Three and the Angola Three and who ended up on the wrong side of a cop and state vendetta and anti-imperialist fighters like the working-class based Ohio Seven and student-based Weather Underground who took Che Guevara’s admonition to wage battle inside the “belly of the beast” seriously. Of course a couple of years ago  we lost Hugo Pinell, George Jackson’s comrade-in-arms from the San Quentin Six to a murderous vendetta. Others, other militant labor and social liberation fighters as well, too numerous to mention here but remembered.

Normally I do not need any prompting in the matter. One year though, and it now bears repeating each year, after I read the 25th Anniversary Appeal article in Workers Vanguard No. 969 I was startled to note how many of the names, organizations, and political philosophies mentioned there hark back to my own radical coming of age, and the need for class-struggle defense of all our political prisoners in the late 1960s (although I may not have used that exact term at the time).

That recognition included names like black liberation fighter George Jackson’s present class-war prisoner the late Hugo Pinell’s San Quentin Six comrade; the Black Panthers in their better days, the days when the American state really was out to kill or detain every last supporter, and in the days when we needed, desperately needed, to fight for their defense in places from Oakland to New Haven,  as represented by two of the Omaha Three (Poindexter and the late wa Langa), in their younger days; the struggle, the fierce struggle, against the death penalty as represented in Mumia’s case today (also Black Panther-connected); the Ohio 7 and the Weather Underground who, rightly or wrongly, were committed to building a second front against American imperialism, and who most of the left, the respectable left, abandoned; and, of course, Leonard Peltier and the Native American struggles from Pine Ridge to the Southwest. It has been a long time and victories few. I could go on but you get the point.

That point also includes the hard fact that we have paid a high price, a very high price, for not winning back in the late 1960s and early 1970s when we last had this capitalist imperialist society on the ropes. Maybe it was political immaturity, maybe it was cranky theory, maybe it was elitism, hell, maybe it was just old-fashioned hubris but we let them off the hook. And have had to fight forty years of rear-guard “culture wars” since just to keep from falling further behind.

And the class-war prisoners, our class-war prisoners, have had to face their “justice” and their prisons. And this, as well, as a quick glance at the news these days should make every liberation fighter realize; the difference between being on one side of that prison wall and the other is a very close thing when the bourgeois decides to pull the hammer down. The support of class-war prisoners is thus not charity, as International Labor Defense founder James P. Cannon noted back in the 1920s, but a duty of those fighters outside the walls. Today I do my duty, and gladly. I urge others to do the same now at the holidays and throughout the year. 

The class-war prisoners must not stand alone. 

                                                                                                

PDC    

Box 99 Canal Street Station                        

New York, N.Y. 10013

Google Partisan Defense Committee for more information and updates