Thursday, May 01, 2014

maydayfeature

May Day: Lessons from Yesterday and Today

Published On April 24, 2014 | By Katie Quarles | History, Labor Movement

Beginning with May Day this year, the fight for a $15 an hour minimum wage can spread like wildfire. This can become a catalyst to rebuild the labor movement and traditions of mass struggle. As we fight for a $15 an hour minimum wage, we need to learn the lessons of past victories to win our struggles today.
Workers have always had to fight for everything we have, from the weekend to the eight-hour day to less dangerous working conditions. Not to mention every wage increase we have received.
Every year on May 1, workers in many countries get the day off and unions organize large demonstrations and celebrations for International Workers Day. May 1 commemorates events that occurred during the struggle for the eight-hour day in the U.S. in 1886.
MayDayCartoon lgAt that time, workers across the United States were commonly working 10-16 hours a day, six days a week. A general strike was organized across many parts of the country on May 1. Much like the demand for a $15/hr minimum wage today, many businesses claimed a 40-hour workweek was unreasonable and would be too expensive for them. The strike went on for several days. A number of workers were shot by police and the National Guard in cities like Chicago and Milwaukee. Then, on May 4, a bomb exploded during a rally at Haymarket Square in Chicago. Labor activists were blamed, with seven of them sentenced to death. Nevertheless, the strike was a victory, with many workers getting their workdays shortened to eight or 10 hours a day without loss of pay.
The demand for an eight-hour day helped to mobilize fighting unions, radicalizing youth and activists in political parties organizing against capitalist domination. The fight for a $15 an hour minimum wage can do the same today, bringing together labor activists, former Occupiers, and campaigners against racism and sexism. After the momentum of a victory for the eight-hour day, many felt the need to commemorate the struggle and take the movement forward. In 1889, the “Second International” of working-class organizations endorsed May 1 as a worldwide day of demonstrations.
May Day Today
AFP Photo / Sabah Arar
AFP Photo / Sabah Arar
To this day, International Workers Day is a legal holiday in more than 80 countries and unofficially celebrated in many more, where workers mark the day by going to mass demonstrations.
With 400 Americans owning more wealth than half of all Americans combined now, more than ever, working people in the United States need to reclaim May 1 and its original spirit of struggle. In recent years, the tradition has been reclaimed in the U.S. by the immigrant rights movement. Then, Occupy groups in 2012 also helped organize big rallies. This year, the fight for a $15 an hour minimum wage will be a key demand of many demonstrations.
Immigrants also played a big role in the struggle for the eight-hour day. In today’s struggle to raise the minimum wage, immigrants also have a key role to play. That’s why the struggle to raise the minimum wage needs to go hand in hand with the struggle for immigrant rights. Organizing and fighting is easier when workers don’t have to live in fear of being deported for standing up. This will make victory easier to help all low-wage workers, native-born and immigrants. May 1 can be an important day to help build the struggle for immigrant rights, linking it to the fight for a $15 minimum wage.
When We Fight. . .We Win!
thumb.phpThe concessions made to workers in 1886 were not given easily. It took the organized struggle of tens of thousands of workers, risking their lives, breaking laws in a coordinated manner, and defying police and the National Guard to win these improvements.
The very fact that workers were able to shut down large sections of the economy to win improvements in their standard of living shows the potential power of the organized working class. Despite the decreasing union density in the U.S., the potential for this power remains fundamentally the same. The power to organize to bring the economy to its knees is the power that changed manufacturing jobs from the low-skill, low-wage, unorganized jobs they were to being considered “good union jobs” now. We need to fight to make the same transformation in the low-wage service sector jobs of today.
However, every victory won under capitalism is only temporary in nature. As soon as the workers and our unions appear weaker, the bosses will try and claw back previously won gains. The profit motive as the driving factor in the economy dictates that bosses will always try to decrease the workers’ share of the profits in order to increase their own.
Workers do all the work in this society. We can run the economy and society democratically ourselves by taking the top 500 corporations into public ownership. A society run on this basis rather than the profit motive could immediately give everyone a socially necessary job, eliminate unnecessary branches of the economy and, instead, make a massive investment in infrastructure, improving and expanding free education for all, including universities; free universal health care with a strong focus on preventive care; and food production in the interests of public health rather than profit. And spreading the socially necessary work out among the entire potential workforce would decrease the number of hours everyone would have to work. No one who works would have to live in poverty, as the obscene wealth hoarded by the 1% would be made available for all.
Genuine democratic socialism would be a fundamentally different society in which the economy is democratically run through committees in workplaces and neighborhoods, which would elect people to regional and worldwide committees who would be recallable at any time and would not earn any more than the average of the people they represent.
To achieve such a fundamental transformation of society – a key goal of many of the original organizers of International Workers Day – we need to build and strengthen the labor movement and fight to get unions to break from the two parties of big business and enter the political arena with a party of our own.

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*From The Archives-ON MAY DAY-OUR FLAG IS STILL RED-HONOR THE HAYMARKET MARTYRS


Commentary

THIS YEAR MARKS THE 128TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE MAY DAY HAYMARKET FRAMEUPS. HONOR THE MEMORY OF AUGUST SPIES, ALBERT PARSONS, ADOLPH FISCHER, GEORGE ENGEL, LOUIS LINGG, MICHAEL SCHWAB, SAMUEL FIELDEN, OSCAR NEEBE- CLASS WAR VICTIMS OF AN EARLIER TIME. ALSO REMEMBER LUCY PARSONS WHO CARRIED ON THE STRUGGLE FOR VINDICATION AFTER HER HUSBAND’S EXECUTION. LET US REDOUBLE OUR EFFORTS TO FREE TODAY’S CLASS WAR PRISONERS.

FORGET DONKEYS, ELEPHANTS AND GREENS- BUILD A WORKERS PARTY


Politically, the writer of these lines is far distance from those of the Haymarket Martyrs. Their flag was the black flag of anarchism, the writer’s is the red flag of socialism. Notwithstanding those political differences, militants must stand under the old labor slogan that should underscore all labor defense work now as then- ‘An injury to one is an injury to all’. Unfortunately that principle has been honored far more in the breech than in the observance by working class organizations.

Additionally, in the case of the Haymarket Martyrs today’s militants must stand in solidarity and learn about the way those militants bravely conducted themselves before bourgeois society in the face of the witch hunt against them and their frame-up in the courts of so-called bourgeois ‘justice’. Not for the first time, and most probably not for the last, militants were railroaded by the capitalist state for holding unpopular and or/dangerous (to the capitalists) views. Moreover, it is no accident that most of the Haymarket Martyrs were foreigners (mainly Germans) not fully appreciative of the niceties of 19th century American ‘justice’. This same ‘justice’ system framed the heroic anarchist immigrant militants Sacco and Vanzetti in the early 20th century and countless other militants since then. As we struggle in the fight for full citizenship rights for immigrants today we should keep this in mind. Although, as we also know, this American system of ‘justice’ will not forget the occasional uppity ‘native’ political dissenter either.

Most importantly, we must not forget that the Haymarket Martyrs at the time of their arrest were fighting for the establishment of a standardized eight hour work day. It is ironic that 120 years later this simple, rational, reasonable demand should, in effect, still be necessary to fight for by working people. All proportions taken into account since the 1880’s, a very high percentage of the working class still does not have this luxury- given the necessity of two wage-earner families, two job wage-earners, dramatic increases in commute time in order to gain employment, unpaid but mandatory work time (note especially the Walmart-ization of labor time) and a high rate of partially or fully unemployed able-bodied workers. To do justice to the memory of the Haymarket Martyrs this generation of militants should dust off another old labor slogan that used to be part of the transitional demands of the socialist movement- 30 hours work for 40 hours pay. TODAY THIS IS A REASONABLE DEMAND.

Obviously such a demand cannot be implemented in isolation. To even propose such a demand means we need to build a workers party to fight for it. Moreover, and let us not have illusions about this; this capitalist state does not want to and will not grant such a demand. Therefore, we must fight for a workers government. That would be a true monument to the memory of the Haymarket Martyrs.
***Out In The Be-Bop, Be-Bop 1960s Night- The World Turned Upside Down-The Great Teenage Triangle

 

 

A YouTube film clip of Dale Ward performing his classic 1960s teen angst Letter From Sherry, with lyrics provide below, in order to give a flavor of the times to this piece

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Yeah, no question I had trouble, big trouble, holding on to girls when I was a kid in high school. Or maybe I better be more honest and say that I was tongue-tied around them, didn’t understand them, and got all sweaty-palmed around them and therefor did not need to worry about holding out to them because they vanished in the night like some fog rolled in. Of course now the other problem was that I seemed to always be behind the curve in the teenage “intelligence” department. You know finding out via the ubiquitous teenage grapevine which held forth first thing Monday morning before school in the boys’ “lav” who was “spoken” for and such. I was forever picking girls who were “going steady” or had large boyfriends or stuff like that. Now that kind of thing is done with, no more worries. Except recently I was looking at a 1960s record compilation, you know one of those “greatest hits” things that record companies are hustling to the AARP-worthy generation when I spied a telling song, Dale Ward performing his classic 1960s teen angst Letter From Sherry. Just seeing that song listed had me fully engaged in a sweaty-handed re-run of my teen angst and alienated youth. I have provided lyrics provide below in order to give a flavor of the times to this piece. The story below will tell you why.

*********

Nobody said being a teenager was going to be easy now, in 1860 or whenever they invented teenagers, 1960 the time period of this piece, or, hell, 2360. Teen angst, short term or long, comes with the territory. However sometimes something, in this case a song, will sum up just exactly how hard teen life really is. I admit this one had me a little weepy for a while over the fate, a common fate, of one of the characters. That is until I realized, wait a minute this is teen stuff, next week the configuration will have totally changed, or the boys (or girl) in this teen triangle will have sworn off girls (or boys, for the girl). Yah, right.

Rather than leave the reader in any more suspense let me give the details of the heart-rending dilemma. It seems that Robert, well let’s call him Robert because Roberts always seem to be the kind of guys who draw the short end of the stick in teen life, was head over heels in love with Sherry, and had been ever since they met a couple of summers back down at the far end, the teen far end, of Olde Saco Beach up in cold climate Maine so it must have been July, no later. Needless to say they were both “enjoying” the rite of passage teen bored-to-death vacation with their ever-loving families when the family dogs they were walking met, and presto Robert and Sherry met. (By the way dogs are optional in this kind of story, although included here since they met while walking the respective family dogs) Things went fine for a while, as such summer romances go, and they wrote during the winter with all kinds of expectations of another high school teen romance summer, with maybe a little more than just kissing this time.

As luck would have it though Robert, studious, shoulder to the wheel if smitten Robert, had an opportunity to work at Ben’s Market in Olde Saco that next summer in order to help with his soon to be impeding college tuition. Naturally he had to “jump” at the opportunity (with a very big “friendly” push from his parents). And that is when things started to fall apart.

Nature, and teen nature is a pure scientific example of that law, abhors a vacuum. Especially a foxy Sherry on the beach alone, no Robert alone, (and no dog along for introductions this time) when Eddie, let’s call him Eddie, not Edward, not, Ed, not Eduardo, just Eddie because it is always Eddies who scoop up the foxes in teen life came swaggering up the beach, sat right beside Sherry and started, well, started in his version of fast Eddie love talk. Just like that. And Sherry, well, Sherry was just in the mood to hear such talk, if not from "shoulder the wheel" Robert then Eddie, kind of hunky Eddie, would do just fine. After all a girl has to look out for herself in this wicked old world.

The long and short of it was that Sherry made a date with Eddie, a happy date when she found out that Eddie had a “boss” ’57 Chevy for that date. Robert’s was working at his silly old market job anyway so he would be none the wiser. That night, it might have been the stars, it might have been the moon, it might have been Sherry mad at Robert, or it just might have been the time of her time, but Sherry let Eddie have his way with her down at the far, far, far end of Olde Saco beach. The place where only teenagers with something on their minds other than throwing pebbles in the surf go, no one else goes there not even the cops.

So far still nothing remarkable, right. A million teens lost in the moon-beam night learning about the ways of the world, the adult sex world that they keep hush-hush about but which every teen since Socrates, maybe before, gets hip to, one way or another. But here is where it gets dicey. See Eddie already had a foxy girlfriend back home, Laura, who outfoxes Sherry six ways to Sunday. And is rather possessive of her man. Switchblade-like possessive if it came to it. And Eddie, frankly, while he enjoyed Sherry was in it for kicks, for just doing it when the opportunity arose, and moving on. So that is exactly what he did. Sherry though, after the short summer tryst was over, started writing Eddie asking when he was coming back and all that kind of stuff, girl crush stuff.

Still not that remarkable though. What was though was that Eddie and Robert attended the same regional high school together, Arundel High over the other side of Sanford (although they do not live in the same town) and were both on the football team. (Robert the steady plebeian pulling guard, Fast Eddie, well, the fleet-footed halfback, naturally) So one afternoon Eddie, Eddie acting like a peacock, showed Robert, in the presence of his best friend, Josh Breslin, and so that is how this situation became public knowledge, well school knowledge anyway, since Josh is a friend of mine as well one of Sherry’s letters.

Eddie went on a little about what he and Sherry did and what a cluck she was for writing a breeze guy like Eddie such stuff. And Eddie said right then and there that he bet Robert five dollars, five serious dollars, that he could write a couple of lines to Sherry about not having enough dough for postage stamps to write her before, or something, as his reason for not writing and he could be right back down there at the far, far, far end of Olde Saco Beach with Sherry anytime he wanted. Well, maybe not anytime because on hearing that Robert reared back and gave Eddie a punch that dropped him to the ground in nothing flat. So floor-fast Eddie and his jaw were on the bench for a while if Sherry wanted to know his whereabouts just then.

***********

Letter From Sherry lyrics-Dale War

A letter from Sherry

Oh boy, what a girl

But to the boy who really loves her

Its the end of the world.

A letter from Sherry

Brings teardrops to my eyes

A letter from Sherry

Oh why, Sherry, why?

My best friend named Eddie

Came by just yesterday

With a letter from Sherry

Heres what she had to say

Dear Eddie Dear Eddie, I love you I love you

With all my heart with all my heart

Vacation last summer

Was grand

And though you

You never write

I pray I pray

Each day and night

For Im yours

And yours alone

And dear Sherry, shes comin home

A letter from Sherry

Oh boy, what a girl

But to the boy who really loves her

***Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Night- When "Stewball" Stu Stewart ’57 Chevy Ruled The “Chicken” Roads

 

A YouTube film clip of Chuck Berry performing his classic School Days to give a flavor of the times to this piece

From The Pen Joshua Lawrence Breslin

 

Back in the day, back in the 1960s be-bop night I was enamored of, dug, the guys who could wheel around in cars like nothing. Guys who were handy with a wrench in more ways than one, guys who could steer on a dime, guys who thought nothing of going 100 miles an hour on some after midnight “chicken run” to prove, to prove what, to prove they were the king of the hill in the burned-out Olde Saco Beach night. Guys totally different from clumsy, non-mechanical, nerdy me who could barely work the shifts on a car. Yeah, guys like “Stewball” Stu Stewart who lived down at the end of my street and who I was thinking about recently. The reason for that thought after so many years was that I had just then seen for about the twelfth time James Dean’s Rebel Without A Cause where cool car guys and chicken runs to prove manhood came into play (and teen angst and alienation too but I had that part down already, down  big time). I was also at that time looking at an old record cover from those days when everybody was glad to put a big old “golden age of the automobile” young guy with a souped-up car on the album as a lure to the guys. Come on, to the girls, silly. So there it was artfully done a guy in full James Dean-imitation pout, one good-looking, DA-quaffed, white muscle-shirted young man, an alienated young man, no question, leaning, leaning gently, very gently, arms folded, on the hood of his 1950’s classic automobile, clearly not his father’s car, but also clearly for our purposes let us call it his “baby.”

And that car, that extension of his young manhood, his young alienated manhood, is Friday night, Saturday night, or maybe a weekday night if it is summer, parked directly in front of the local teenage "hot spot." (Priority parked, meaning nobody with some Nash Rambler, nobody with some foreign Volkswagen, no biker even, in short, nobody except somebody who is tougher, a lot tougher, than our alienated young man better breathe on the spot while he is within fifty miles of the place.) And in 1950s’ America, a teenage America with some disposal income (allowance, okay), that hot spot is likely to be, as in that picture, the all-night Mel’s (or Joe’s, Adventure Car-Hop, whatever) drive-in restaurant opened to cater to the hot dog, hamburger, French fries, barbecued chicken cravings of exhausted youth. Youth exhausted after a hard night of, well, let’s just call it a hard night and leave the rest to your knowing imagination, or their parents’ evil imaginations.

And in front of the restaurant, in front of that leaned-on “boss” automobile stands one teenage girl vision. One blondish, pony-tailed, midnight sun-glassed, must be a California great American West night teeny-bopper girl holding an ice cream soda after her night’s work. The work that we are leaving to fertile (or evil, as the case may be) imaginations. Although from the pout on Johnny’s (of course he has to be a Johnny, with that car) face maybe he “flunked out” but that is a story for somebody else to tell. Here’s mine.

********

Not everybody, not everybody by a long-shot, who had a “boss” ’57 cherry red Chevy was some kind of god’s gift to the earth; good-looking, good clothes, dough in his pocket, money for gas and extras, money for the inevitable end of the night stop at Jimmy John’s Drive-In restaurant for burgers and fries (and Coke, with ice, of course) before taking the date home after a hard night of tumbling and stumbling (mainly stumbling). At least that is what one Joshua Breslin, Josh, me, freshly minted fifteen- year old roadside philosopher thought as for the umpteenth time “Stewball” Stu left me by the side of Albemarle Road and rode off into the Olde Saco night with his latest “hot” honey, fifteen year old teen queen Sally Sullivan.

Yah, Stewball Stu was nothing but an old rum-dum, a nineteen year old rum-dum, except he had that “boss” girl-magnet ’57 cherry red Chevy (painted that color by Stu himself) and he had his pick of the litter in the Olde Saco, maybe all of Maine, night. By the way Stu’s official name, was Stuart Stewart, go figure, but don’t call him Stuart and definitely do not call him “Stewball” not if you want to live long enough not to have the word teen as part of your age. The Stewball thing was strictly for local boys, jealous local boys like me, who when around Stu always could detect a whiff of liquor, usually cheap jack Southern Comfort, on his breathe, day or night.

Figure this too. How does a guy who lives out on Tobacco Road in an old run-down trailer, half-trailer really, from about World War II that looked like something out of some old-time Hooverville scene, complete with scrawny dog, and tires and cannibalized car leavings every which way have girls, and nothing but good-looking girls from twelve to twenty (nothing older because as Stu says, anything older was a woman and he wanted nothing to do with women, and their women’s needs, whatever they are). And the rest of us get his leavings, or like tonight left on the side of Route One. And get this, they, the girls from twelve to twenty actually walk over to Tobacco Road from the nice across the other side of the tracks homes like on Atlantic Avenue and Fifth Street, sometimes by themselves and sometime in packs just to smell the grease, booze, burnt rubber, and assorted other odd-ball smells that come for free at Stu’s so-called garage/trailer.

Let me tell you about Stu, Sally, and me tonight and this will definitely clue you in to the Stu-madness of the be-bop Olde Saco girl night. First of all, as usual, it is strictly Stu and me starting out. Usually, like today, I hang around his garage on Saturdays to get away from my own hell-house up the road and I am kind of Stu’s unofficial mascot. Now Stu had been working all day on his dual-exhaust carburetor or something, so his denims are greasy, his white tee-shirt (sic) is nothing but wet with perspiration and oil stains, he hasn’t taken a bath since Tuesday (he told me that himself with some sense of pride) and he was not planning to do so this night, and of course, drinking all day from his silver Southern Comfort flask he reeked of alcohol (but don’t tell him that if you read this and are from Olde Saco because, honestly, I want to live to have twenty–something as my age). About 7:00 PM he bellows out to me, cigarette hanging from his mouth, a Lucky, let’s go cruising.

Well, cruising means nothing but taking that be-bop ’57 cherry red Chevy out on East Grand and do the “look.” Look for girls, look for boys from the sticks with bad-ass cars who want to take a chance on beating Stu at the “chicken run” down at the flats on the far end of Sagamore Beach, look for something to take the edge off the hunger to be somebody number one. At least that last is what I figured after a few of these cruises with Stu. Tonight it looks like girls from the way he put some of that grease (no not car grease, hair-oil stuff) on his curly hair. Yes, I am definitely looking forward to cruising tonight once I have that sign because, usually whatever girl Stu might not want, or maybe there are a couple of extras, or something I get first dibs. Yah, Stu is righteous like that.

So off we go, stopping at my house first so I can get a little cleaned up and put on a new shirt and tell my brother to tell our mother that I will be back later, maybe much later, if she ever gets home herself before I do. The cruising routine in Olde Saco means up and down Route One (okay, okay Main Street), checking out the lesser spots (Darby’s Pizza Palace, Hank’s Ice Cream joint, the Colonial Donut Shoppe where I hang during the week after school and which serves a lot more stuff than donuts and coffee, sandwiches and stuff, and so on). Nothing much this Saturday. So we head right away for the mecca, Jimmy John’s Diner. As we hit Stu’s “saved” parking spot just in front I can see that several stray girls are eyeing the old car, eyeing it like tonight is the night, tonight is the night Stu, kind of, sort of, maybe notices them (and I, my heart starting to race a little in anticipation and glad that I stopped off at my house, got a clean shirt, and put some deodorant on and guzzled some mouthwash, am feeling tonight is the night too).

But tonight is not the night, no way. Not for me, not for those knees-trembling girls. Why? No sooner did we park than Sally Sullivan came strolling (okay I don’t know if she was strolling or doo-wopping but she was swaying in such a sexy way that I knew she meant business, that she was looking for something in the Olde Saco night and that she had “found” it) out to Stu’s Chevy and with no ifs, ands, or buts asked, asked Stu straight if he was doing anything this night.

Let me explain before I tell you what Stu’s answer was that this Sally Sullivan is nothing but a sex kitten, maybe innocent-looking, but definitely has half the boys, hell maybe all the boys at Olde Saco High, including a lot of the guys on the football team drooling over her. I know, because I have had more than one sleepless night over her. See, she is in my English class and because Mr. Murphy lets us sit where we want I usually sit with a good view of her. So Stu says, kind of off-handedly, like having the town teen fox come hinter on him was a daily occurrence, says kind of lewdly, “Well, baby I am if you want to go down Sagamore Rocks right now and look for dolphins?”

See, Sagamore Rocks is nothing but the local lovers’ lane here and “looking for dolphins” is the way everybody, every teenage everybody in town says “going all the way,” having sex for the clueless. And Sally, as you can guess if you have been following my story said, “Yes” just like that. At that is why I was dumped, unceremoniously dumped, at my street while they roared off into the night. I said before not every “boss” car owner is god’s gift to women, not by a long shot. Or maybe they are.

***Out In The Be-Bop Be-Bop 1960s Night-When Diana Nelson “Touched” The North Adamsville Night Away

 

 
YouTube film clip of Leslie Gore performing her classic 1960s teen dream theme That’s The Way Boys Are.

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman


Everybody knows, or should know, and if you don’t I will tell you now, that I had it bad for Diana Nelson. Yes, that Diana Nelson, the gal who has sung more note-worthy torch songs, brought more tears to sullen eyes, in front of more jazz combos, good ones too, than I have time to list here.  We went to school together back in the 1960s (North Adamsville Class of 1964, sorry Diana if you are fudging on your age these days) and even then I knew she would be good, would make it. We had had our possible moment one time but I always seemed to be about one or two steps behind in those days, behind in the girl figuring out department.

Recently I was rummaging through a chest up in the attic where I store lots of old stuff, including old vinyl records that I remember laughingly telling my wife would “make a comeback someday” and so should be kept for potential value. And nostalgia. One of the albums, a compilation, had a photograph of Leslie Gore on the cover, and that got me to thinking about Diana again. The Leslie Gore song on the compilation was the classic teen dream theme (girl division) song, That’s The Way Boys Are. That song was our “song” for that brief period when we were flirting around each other. More importantly that was one of the songs in demand that Diana covered when she got gigs to sing at various dances. All of which reminded me of how good she was but also how driven she was to make good. The following is how I remember that drive of hers from what she mentioned in our talks together.       

******

I, Diana Nelson, am going to be a big singing star just watch out, watch out and don’t blink because then you will miss it. Hey, it is written in the stars, my stars. Proof? I have just this spring won the 1962 edition of the annual Adamsville Female Vocalist Contest. Hands down! There was no way that any of those other girls could match (and one guy who dressed up as a girl, weird right, although he did a good job on Mary Wells’ Two Lovers and I was a little worried until they found out he was a guy and gave him the boot). Even Emma Johns and her smoky version of old hat Peggy Lee’s Fever got left behind when I went deep, deep down almost to my soul on Brenda Lee’s I’m Sorry. See that is what the judges were looking for, not smoldering sexy stuff but act of contrition stuff. And the girls who filled up the audience seats and gave their thumbs up and down only wanted to hear stuff that they could listen to when they cry on their pillows after their Johnny doesn’t call, when he goes cheap on some corny date, or when he cheats on them, cheats on them with their best friend, usually. I’ve got it all figured out.

Sure, like I was telling my good friend, Frank Jackman, the other day during class I was glad to get the one thousand dollar scholarship money that was one of the prizes offered. I can use it if I decide to go to college after we graduate next year. But the big thing for me is to get to sing, sing featured, along with the guys from the Rockin’ Ramrods to back me up, at the Falling Leaves Dance which is held late in September. That dance is always sponsored by the senior class and it will give me a thrill to go out to please that crowd of fellow seniors, especially Frank, who shares my love of music (although he is not a very good singer, sorry if you see this Frank) and likes to talk about politics and stuff like I do. The big, big thing though, and I haven’t even told Frank about this is that a recording agent, Jerry Rice, yes, Jerry Rice, from Ducca Records, the one that signed Connie what’s-her name, has promised to be there and if he likes what he hears, well, like I say it in my stars. Don’t blink, okay.

By the way don’t get thrown off by that good friend Frank thing, especially if you know my own true love boyfriend Bobby Swann. There’s nothing to it, noting to it (sorry again, Frank). Bobby couldn’t be at the contest because he was studying for his finals at State University. He is finishing up his freshman year and so he had to study hard. Frank and I met in ninth grade and we have been good friends ever since. Oh, I suppose I can tell you now, now that I have my handsome blue-eyed Bobby, that if he wasn't such a “stup” Frank could have had his chances with me but all he ever did was stare at my ass in class, and in the corridors. If you don’t believe me ask Emma Johns, she’s the one that noticed him doing it first, although I had an idea. Better yet, ask Frank he’ll tell you, maybe. The thing was that I couldn’t wait forever for him to get up the nerve to ask me out and then Bobby came along and swooped me up in tenth grade and then I didn’t care for younger guys anymore, except as good friends.

I guess I should tell you since I am telling you everything else that I had a dream when I was very young, maybe seven or eight, that I was going to be a singing star. Maybe it was my mother always playing women singers on the family record like that Peggy Lee when she was young and sprightly with Benny Goodman, Teresa Brewer, and Billie Holiday that got me going because I would sing along all day with the radio on. Later Ma had me take singing lessons and I have been going strong ever since. Frank said he went crazy when he first heard me do Brenda’s I Want To Be Wanted and Patsy Cline’s Crazy, although she, Patsy, seemed a little to ah, shucks, countrified when I first heard her. She has gotten less so since she has started turning to more a more popular style. I sure wish I could hit her high notes but Miss French, my vocals teacher, says I will get there soon enough and then I will have to, get this word, “husband” my valuable resource. See, I am a cinch.

Did I tell you that I told, no ordered Frank (and I can do that to him, and he jumps like a puppy dog, sorry again Frank) to be at the Falling Leaves Dance solo, so we can talk between sets. It looks like Bobby won’t be coming. According to him no big time State University sophomore would be caught dead at a high school dance and also his cross-country team is having a big meet in New York City that weekend. You know, and I hope you won’t tell Bobby, if you know him, because I do love him so, every once in a while I wish Frank would have done more than just look at my ass in ninth grade.

 

 

Dear Al,
In a front-page article last Sunday, the Boston Globe revealed how military industry lobbyists and insiders have been given control, with almost no accountability and transparency, of a $177 million fund set up to refurbish the 6 military bases in the state.  The official in charge, Mo Cowan, is a lobbyist for Lockheed Martin, and the committee that spends the money doesn't even take minutes of its meetings!
Unbelievable? No, this is happening right now in our state! Once the $177 million in borrowed money is spent, it will have to be paid back with interest by state taxpayers -- though the U.S.military budget is already the largest in the world and hardly needs any additional funding from the citizens of our state!
Write a letter to the editor protesting the unaccountable and non-transparent spending of state taxpayer's money on improvements to military bases!
The Globe article quoted me in opposition to the bill along with State Sen. Jamie Eldridge, one of two state senators to vote no in response to a call by Massachusetts Peace Action in January to oppose the "Military Bond Bill" that authorized the fund.
While our money is being spent on military projects the Pentagon hasn't asked for, 3,897 Massachusetts families have applied for Emergency Shelter in the past 9 months due to inadequate funding for housing.  And the backlog of unmet repair needs in the state’s public housing projects is approximately $1 billion.   Where are the priorities of our elected officials?
Meanwhile, these same state legislators are ignoring the Budget for All resolution (H.3211 and S.1750), which would fund human needs, invest in jobs, ask the rich and corporations to pay their fair share, and cut bloated military spending, even though the Budget for All was passed by a 3-to-1 margin in 91 cities and towns across the state.   Please come to the State House for a Budget for All lobby day on May 22.
This tool will help you write a letter to the editor about the unaccountable and non-transparent spending of state taxpayers' money on improvements to military bases that the Pentagon did not ask for.
Cole Harrison For a peace economy,
Cole Harrison
Executive Director


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Community Speakout/Teach-in on Police Militarization

When: Sunday, May 4, 2014, 4:00 pm to 6:00 pm
Where: 197A Humboldt Ave • Boston

This weekend, May 3-4, police from all over the Boston area will gather to hold trainings called "Urban Shield." Though the city of Boston is framing it as an "emergency preparedness" drill, regional police forces will also be training in military tactics, including home raids, surveillance, and the use of military weapons.
On May 4th, STop Oppressive Militarized Police (STOMP) will host our own gathering and community speak out to bring together affected communities, share our experiences, and lay the groundwork for a city-wide movement that crosses neighborhood, color, and religious lines. We will say with one voice: Close the "gang" intelligence fusion centers! Stop the militarization of the police!
Join us in sharing your story and building power to roll back militarism at home and beyond!
Confirmed speakers:
Andrea James - Families for Justice as Healing
Laila Murad - Free Tarek Mehanna Campaign
KC Mackey - Black and Pink
Kade Crockford - ACLU Massachusetts
Gabriel Camacho - American Friends Service Committee
Ali Issa - War Resisters League, Facing Tear Gas Campaign 
Cosponsors: ACLU of Massachusetts, Black and Pink, Boston Feminists for Liberation, Dorchester People for Peace, Families for Justice as Healing, International Socialist Organization - Boston, War Resisters League - Facing Tear Gas Campaign, Watertown Citizens for Peace, Justice and the Environment, Youth Against Mass Incarceration 
Upcoming Events: 

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March for $15/hr  TOMORROW at May Day!
Please join 15 Now New England and other allies coming together in Boston this May Day to show that we are united for all workers demanding a $15/hr minimum wage and a union! Together we can win!
When
TOMORROW!
Thursday
May 1st, 2014
Assemble at 3:30
Where
East Boston
Liberty Plaza, Central Square
near Maverick on the Blue Line
Boston, MA 02150
Contact us at 15NowNewEngland@gmail.com or 
 910-639-3948 for more details