Friday, November 20, 2015

From The Archives Of The International Labor Defense (1925-1946)-Free All Class-War Prisoners Now!


From The Archives  Of The International Labor Defense (1925-1946)

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Introducing The Committee For International Labor Defense

Mission Statement

The Committee for International Labor Defense (CILD) is a legal and political defense organization working on behalf of the international working class and oppressed minorities providing aid and solidarity in legal cases. We stand today in the traditions of the working-class defense policies of the International Labor Defense (ILD) 1925-1946, the defense arm of the American Communist Party which won its authority as a defense organization in cases like Sacco and Vanzetti, the Scottsboro Boys, defense of Black Sharecropper’ Union and Birmingham steelworkers union efforts in the South in the 1930s and 1940s, and garnering support in the United States for the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War. 

The ILD takes a side. In the struggles of working people to defend their unions and independent political organizations and to organize themselves we stand in solidarity against their exploiters. In the struggles of the oppressed and other socially marginalized peoples to defend their communities and to organize themselves we stand in solidarity with their efforts against their oppressors.  While favoring all possible legal proceedings for the cases we support, we recognize that the courts, prisons and police exist to maintain the ruling class’ dominance over all others. To paraphrase one of the founding members of the original ILD said “we place 100% of our faith in the power of the masses to mobilize to defend their own and zero faith, none, in the ‘justice’ of the courts or other tribunals.”

As we take the side of working people and oppressed minorities we also strive to be anti-sectarian. We will, according to our abilities, critically but unconditionally support movements and defend cases of organizations or individuals with whose political views we do not necessarily agree. We defend, to paraphrase the original statement of purpose of the old ILD, “any member of the workers and oppressed movement, regardless of their views, who has suffered persecution by the capitalist courts and other coercive institutions because of their activities or their opinions.” As the old labor slogan goes-“an injury to one is an injury to all.”


 
In the long arc, the now fifty years long arc of Sam Lowell’s left-wing political activism, the question of the plight of political prisoners, class-war prisoners to distinguish them from death squad Nazis and thugs and the commonality of other criminals has always played a central role in his work. Part of this was out of necessity in the old days when the American government was whipping away drafter resisters for their righteous opposition to the Vietnam War then raging and threatening to take a whole generation down with it both soldiers and civilians, military resisters who once a critical mass of soldiers started coming back and telling the real story of the war became more prevalent as the American Army was in near mutiny before the thing got closed down by the heroic Vietnamese resistance fighters, the civilly disobedient from little old ladies in tennis sneakers, Quakers, Shakers and later radicals and reds, rowdy according to them anti-war protesters, Black Panthers, at least the ones they did not try to just outright kill in their beds like Fred Hampton and Mark Clark or frame up almost to death like Geronimo Pratt (when he was going by that name before his conversion to a Muslim name he could not remember) or anybody else who got in their way when they pulled the hammer down and began the long “night of the long knives” that we have been subject to ever since without any apparent end in sight.

Since then through the vagaries of whatever small struggles he and what he calls the “remnant,” those who still hold the torch seeking the “newer world” and those too few who have joined those old new leftists political prisoner work has been the one constant when other struggles have failed like the now endless wars of the American government or situations that have been resolved at least partially like the struggle against apartheid in South Africa.

(Sam by the way has this very big thing about not calling the government “our government” ever since those days, those days when his best friend from high school, Jeff Mullins, was killed in Vietnam and in letters home begged Sam to tell a candid world what the hell was going on over there and he saw what the hell it was doing to young kids, kids out of high school just like him making them nothing but animals and so unless you want, and I don’t, a ration of grief we will stick with his designation.)

So Sam Lowell in his time has defended, has tried to publicize the plight of political prisoners as they have come up starting back in the day with the various anti-war protestors rounded up on May Day, 1971 (including himself), the Panthers and other black nationalists when they were under the gun of the American government, the victims of the coup in Chile in 1973, the aforementioned anti-apartied fighters led by the later Nelson Mandela in South Africa, the British coal-miners in the 1980s, many anti-death penalty struggles including the Mumia Abu Jamal (now serving a “living death” life without parole sentence) Troy Davis (executed by the state of Georgia in 2011)cases (and lately the case of the surviving member of the Boston Marathon bombings now under death sentence when he stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the Federal Courthouse in Boston down by the waterfront with Catholic Workers and Veterans for Peace but not anybody from Amnesty International or Massachusetts Committee Against the Death Penalty), and lots of others. All done, whether Sam was conscience of it at the time or not under the old slogan from the Wobblie days (Industrial Workers of the World, IWW)-“an injury to one is an injury to all.”

Lately Sam has been thinking, as he has reduced his law practice work, let others run the day to day operations of his small practice down in Carver about thirty miles from Boston, about that slogan, about the history of that idea. On the face of it the proposition makes total sense but what Sam was looking at was how that proposition was made concrete at least since the high holy hell days when the Wobblies needed all the defense they could muster against the bosses and their state. Now Sam, and you need to know this about him as well, has some method to his madness when he is thinking along such lines and this is the case here as well. Back in August of 2015 he had been invited to a planning meeting of an ad hoc group of Boston left-wing political activists who were interested in setting up a Committee for International Labor Defense (CILD). That name was not accidentally picked since what the group was trying to do was revive the traditions of the International Labor Defense (ILD) which been set up under the aegis of the American Communist Party in 1925 to deal organizationally with the continuing struggle for freedom for left-wing and labor militants under ban from the American government by Jim Cannon, Bill Haywood and others. That organization in turn had been affiliated with the International Red Aid which had previously been set up by the Communist International shortly after its own establishment in 1919.

Sam’s first reaction to the invitation and afterward thinking about the meeting which he had attended that August was that you cannot go home again, that whatever virtues the old ILD had any they were many especially in the 1920s and 1930s well before the operation went out of business in1946, that was over and done with. Then one night he began to think about that “traditions” part, about what the ILD had actually done in its best days. Back then, back in the 1920s when it all started the Wobblies had been decimated by the American government in its vendetta against that organization for its opposition to the First World War and a goodly number were still languishing in jail. Bill Haywood, a Wobblie founder, contacted Jim Cannon then a big wheel in the leadership of the CP and former Wobblie himself about setting up a non-sectarian pro-labor, political prisoner defense group since despite the low level of struggle then the CP was the only organization with the political, financial and legal resources to put together an effective organization. The ILD first won its spurs as a labor defense organization in the unsuccessful fight to save the framed anarchists Sacco and Vanzetti who were executed by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in 1927. The organization was critical in the 1930s in saving the lives of the Scottsboro boys, nine young black men who were accused of raping two white women and who were being railroaded to death row by the state of Alabama. All through the 1930s the ILD helped out labor militants in nasty strike actions and other social struggles like support for the Spanish Republican.

Sam had to admit that in its heyday the ILD did very good work and it would not be disrespectful to try to try to resurrect the traditions of such an organization. But know this about Sam as well he is a devout student of history  so he has to dig into the archives and find material that might be helpful in working through the logistics of “an injury ot one is an injury to all.” Hence this archival piece.                        

















 

From The United National Anti-War Coalition -The Truth Behind the Paris Terrorist Attacks

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UNACpeace@gmail.com           518-227-6947             www.UNACpeace.org
 
The Truth Behind the Paris Terrorist Attacks
 
The tragic terrorist murders of 189 innocent Parisians and the wounding of 359 others on the evening of November 13 are inseparable outcomes of the never-ending imperialist wars in the Middle East.
 
Just as the U.S. responded to the 9/11 terrorist attacks with wars and immediate enactment of heightened surveillance and repressive measures to curb dissent, the French government is doing the same, ready to exploit the horrific murders and grief to increase fear and anger towards Muslims and refugees, rather than looking at the root causes of these acts. [Read more]
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No U.S. Ground Troops in Syria! U.S. Out of Syria!

Antiwar forces in the U.S. must join together to plan actions to protest the growing U.S. intervention in Syria. The most recent step has been to introduce up to 50 Special Forces combat troops to work with what are called "moderate" rebel groups to fight against Islamic State/Daesh. This violates earlier promises by the Obama administration not to send troops to Syria. Contrary to the official White House announcement, the mission is a combat one and troops are likely to face combat. This is an escalation of what is already a major intervention and war [Read more]
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On Thursday, October 15, President Obama announced that the expected drawdown of U.S. forces in Afghanistan will not happen and that 9,800 U.S. troops will remain in the country for a year and then be reduced to 5,000.  This means that the 14 year Afghanistan war, the longest in U.S. history, will continue into the next U.S. administration.
Even these high troop numbers are deceiving because they do not include the troops from other U.S. allies that remain in Afghanistan and they do not include the 30,000+ contractors and mercenaries paid for by the U.S., a number that increases each time the U.S. announces a drawdown of its troops [Read more]


UNAC goes to Cuba and the Philippines
A number of UNAC members and supporters are traveling to Cuba  to attend the 4th International Seminar for Peace and Sovereignty of the Peoples.  The conference will be held in the province of Guantanamo and will focus on military bases.  Additionally, two UNAC leaders are attending an important conference in the Philippines where the US is in the midst of a huge military buildup as part of its “pivot” to Asia.  We urge you to donate to help our supporters attend these events.  You can send a check made out to UNAC to UNAC, PO Box 123, Delmar NY 12054 or click the link below to donate by credit card.
 
Northern California Climate Mobilization

Saturday, Nov. 21, 2015, 10:30 am - Gather at Laker Merritt Amphitheatre
12 noon - March to Ogawa/Oscar Grant Plaza,  1:00 PM Rally.

For more informationa: http://www.norcalclimatemob.net/

There are other events scheduled around the UN "COP12" conference.  We will provide information on them in future emails.
and in New England

Jobs, Justice, Climate: Rally to Defend New England's Future!
 December 12
Click here for more information
 
 

If your organization would like to join the UNAC coalition, please click here: https://www.unacpeace.org/join.html

 
 



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148 B  

Call to Action: Not Another US War!-Boston Saturday November 21st

Date: Thu, Nov 19, 2015 at 9:56 AM
Subject: SAT Nov 21: Don't Let Paris be Pretext for More War!
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Call to Action: Not Another US War!
Don't Allow the Paris Attacks to Become a Pretext for Racism & War
We Need Healthcare, Education, and Jobs for All!
 
Hands Off Syria!
Where are we demonstrating? Park Street and Tremont, Boston
When? Nov. 21 at 1pm
Why?
The US-NATO alliance just completed its largest military operation to date in Europe – called Trident Junction – with Russia as the main target. At the same time, Washington escalated its four-plus-year proxy war against the Syrian government by sending Eagle jets to the Turkish-Syrian border and U.S. Special Forces into Syrian territory to protect the so-called “moderate rebels.”
All of this has come in response to Russia’s intervention to eliminate ISIS in Syria. The Obama administration’s campaign promise of “no boots on the ground” has once again been broken. What Washington has promised with its actions is ever-lasting war.
People all over the world have paid a price for the U.S.-NATO escalation. Hundreds have died in a recent massacre in Paris. Fifty died in Beirut just days before. Hundreds more died just weeks before in the bombing of a Russian tourist flight from Egypt. Washington and its allies have armed and empowered terrorist groups like ISIS to destabilize the Syrian government. The result of this U.S. and NATO military intervention in the region is the blowback that struck the people at home. This intervention has also led to a dangerous military escalation that brings the U.S. closer to a regional war with Russia.
The cost of U.S. war has been far reaching. Over 4 million people have died in Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iraq since the “War on Terror” began in 2001. North Africa has been turned into a hotbed of chaos and terrorism since NATO destroyed Libya in 2011. And Congress has promised $80 billion more in revenue for the trillion dollar Pentagon military apparatus necessary to maintain the global supremacy of the U.S. superrich. These critical funds come from our own pockets and could be used to develop education, healthcare, employment, and housing for all.
This is especially important as the wars on oppressed people continue to wage on within the war-making nations. The racist anti-immigrant movements in Europe and the U.S. are already planning how they will use the attacks in Paris on November 13 to bolster their violent campaigns against African, Arab, and Latino immigrants. Police chiefs across the U.S. who have been pushed back by the Black Lives Matter movement are at this very movement feverishly strategizing about how they will use the Paris attacks to support the ongoing police war against Black and Brown people.Homeland Security and the Wall Street interests that it serves will try to use the Paris attacks to expand surveillance and repression against protest movements. Politicians and their billionaire backers are already plotting how they will use the Paris attacks to launch a wider war against the peoples of the Middle East, Africa and Asia -- the same way that Bush used 911 to destroy Iraq. Now is the time for all of us who know this to stand up and say NO!
Join us at Park Street in Boston to speak out and demand an end to all U.S.-NATO wars! U.S. out of Syria! No to attacks on Immigrants! Divest from war, invest in the people!
Sponsors include: International Action Center, Syrian American Forum, Committee for Peace and Human Rights, Boston United National Anti-War Coalition, Community Activist Chuck Turner, Coalition for Equal Quality Education Peoples Power Assembly, Women's Fightback Netork, Fight Imperialism Stand Together (FIST),  Workers World Boston branch (list in formation)

 

 

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Should Labor Support Hillary? - Public Meeting In Boston

Should Labor Support Hillary? - Public Meeting
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Should Labor Support Hillary? - Public Meeting In Boston
 
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Should the Labor Movement Support Hillary?

Public Meeting and Discussion
https://www.facebook.com/events/1099411326759896/

Saturday, December 5th - 3 PM
Encuentro 5 (9A Hamilton Place)


Featured speakers:
Genevieve Morse
Shop Steward and Executive Board member Mass Teachers Association - CSU*; Socialist Alternative
Cameron Bateman
Labor Rep, Mass Nurses Association*
And more TBA!

The US labor movement is in deep turmoil. The defeats in Wisconsin, Michigan and other former hotbeds of industrial unionism show that a new way is needed in leading the fight back for the organized working class.

In unions around the country, the question of who to support in the presidential elections is being hotly debated. Many union leaderships are pushing for endorsing Hillary Clinton, a known Wall Street lackey and former Wal-Mart board member, against the wishes of the rank-and-filers supporting insurrectionary candidate Bernie Sanders.

The recent decision by one of the biggest unions in the US to support Hillary, an opponent of the $15 an hour minimum wage, over Sanders, a huge $15 supporter whose biggest campaign donors are almost all from organized labor, has caused a massive uproar of discontent among the rank-and-file.

Come out and discuss with several union leaders about the need for labor to come out against support for HIllary Clinton and how union democracy can be restored to help rebuild a fighting labor movement. When we fight, we win!

(*Personal Capacity)
Fight for a better world and help rebuild an organized socialist movement.
 
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Sitting On The Rim Of The World- With The Son Of The Neon Wilderness Nelson Algren In Mind-Take Five

Sitting On The Rim Of The World- With The Son Of The Neon Wilderness Nelson Algren In Mind-Take Five



 


 

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman



He, Nelson Algren, the poet-king of the midnight police line-up, night court shuffle, drug-infested jack-roller, dope-peddler, illicit crap game back alleys, Chicago-style, what did Carl Sandburg the old dusty poet call Chi, oh yeah, hog-butcher and steel-driver of the world, wrote of small-voiced people, mostly people who had started out in the world with small voices, small voices which never got louder. (Except that junkie wail when deep in the “cold turkey” fits, except that drunk dark tavern cheap low-shelf rye whiskey shrieking in the early morning high moon, except that stealthy jack-roller cry of delight once his victim wears that spot of blood on the back of his neck like some red badge of sap-dom, except that scream when some he-man decides that for a minute he would gain a big voice and smack his woman a few times to straighten her out, except that holler when some john decided to bust up his paid-up junkie whore just because he could, except, oh, hell, enough of exceptions in the neon-blazing small voice night.) 


Yeah, Nelson had it right, had that ear for the low moan, the silence in the face of ugly Division Street tenements not fit for the hogs much less the hog-butchers, had the ear for the dazed guys spilling their pitter-patter to Captain just like back in home sweet Mississippi, Georgia, wherever, had the ear for the, what did Jack Kerouac called them, yes, the fellahin, the lump mass peasants, except now they are hell-bound bunched up together on the urban spit, small voices never heard over the rumble of the subway, working stiffs (stinking hog-butchers, sweated steel-driving men, grease-stained tractor-builders, frayed-collared night clerks in some seedy flop, porters sweeper out Mister’s leaving from his executive bathroom, and their women (cold-water flat housewives, cheap Jimmy Jack’s Diner waitresses pencil in ear and steam-tray sweated too tight faded white uniform hustling for nickels and dimes, beaten down shoe factory workers work men did not do, working donut shops filling donuts to feed the tribe, the younger ones hitting Benny’s Tavern for a few quick ones and maybe a quick roll in the hay if some guy pays the freight, older woman doing tricks for extra no tell husband cash, for a fix if she is on the quiet jones), sometimes their kids (already street-wise watching older brothers working back alley jack-rolls, cons, hanging in front of Harry’s Variety doing, well, just doing until the midnight sifter time rolls around), their kids growing up like weeds, who turned out to be disappointments.


But who could expect more from the progeny of small-voiced people, guys who sat around gin mills all night (maybe all day too I knew a few who inhabited the Dublin Grille in my old hometown of Carver, a smaller version of Chi town, another town filled with small-voice people, just fewer, small tenements, cold-water flats, same seedy places not fit to hang in, genteel people hang in).


Nelson never wrote, or wrote much, about big-voiced people who Greek tragedy stumbled, tumbled down to the sound of rumble subway stops out their doors (that damn elevated shaking the damn apartment day and night, rattling the windows, so close passengers got an eyeful when some floozy readied herself for her night’s work or not bothering with modesty, high as a kite, just letting herself not feel anything). Never spoke of people who fell off the rim of the world from some high place due to their hubris, their addictions, their outrageous wanting habits never sated before the fall (not some Edenic fall, not some “searching for the garden” like some uptown tea-fed hipsters claimed they were seeking just ask them) but a silly little worldly fall that once it happened the world moved on and ignored.


Wrote instead of the desperately lonely, a shabby-clothed wino man talking to himself on some forsaken park bench the only voice, not a big voice but a voice that had to be reckoned with, of the stuffed cop swaggering his billy club menacingly to move him on, or else, a woman, unhappy in love, hell maybe jilted at the altar, sitting alone like some Apple Annie in that one Ladies Invited tavern on the corner, the one just off Division where she had met that man the first time and meets all men now, all men with the price of a drink, maybe two, no more, and that eternal price of a by-the-hour flop over on neon hotel, motel, no tell Mitchell Street.


Yeah, a big old world filled with the lonely hearing only their own heartbeats, heard no other heartbeats as they waited out their days. What did T.S. Eliot, the poet and a guy who if strait-laced and Victorian knew what he was talking about call it, oh yeah, measured out their lives in coffee spoons. Nelson wrote of alienated people too, not the Chicago intellectuals who were forever belly-aching about the de-humanization of man (Studs Terkel could quote chapter and verse on these guys and their eternal studies about the plight of man, and they merely made of the same clay) about how we had built a mechanical world from which we had to run but the common clay, the ones who manned the conveyor belts, ran the damn rumbling subways, shoveled the snow, hell, shoveled shit day and night.


Wrote of the night people, not the all night champagne party set until dawn and sleep the day away but of the ones who would show up after midnight in some police precinct line-up, the winos, the jack-rollers, the drifters, the grifters, the midnight sifters, maybe a hooker who had not paid the paddy and thus was subject to the grill. Wrote of the  people who inhabit the Nighthawk Diner (artist Edward Hopper’s all shape angles, all dim lights outside, bright fluorescent no privacy, no hiding lights inside, all the lonely people eating their midnight hamburgers fresh off the greased grill, another grill that forlorn hooker knew well), or Tom Waits’ rummies, bummies, stumblers, street-walkers looking for respect all shadows left behind, take your pick), the restless, the sleepless, the shiftless, those who worked the late shift, those who drew the late shift of life, those who worked better under the cover of night in the dark alleyways and sullen sunken doorways.


He wrote big time, big words, about the small-voiced people, big words for people who spoke in small words, spoke small words about small dreams, or no dreams, spoke only of the moment, the eternal only the moment. The next fix, how to get it, worse, how to get the dough to pay the fixer man, he, sending his woman out on the cold damp streets standing under some streetlight waiting for Johnnie and his two minute pleasures, she if she needs a fix, well, she trading blow jobs for smack, so as not to face that “cold turkey” one more day. The next drink, low boy rotgut wines and cheap whiskies, how to get it, the next bet, how to con the barkeeper to put him on the sheet, the next john, how to take him, the next rent due, how to avoid the dun and who after all had time for anything beyond that one moment.


Waiting eternally waiting to get well, you in such bad shape you can’ t get down the stairs, waiting for the fixer man to walk up the stairs and get you well, well beyond what any medical doctor could prescript, better than any mumbo-jumbo priest could absolve, to get some kicks. (Needle, whiskey, sex although that was far down the list by the time that needle was needed or that shot of low-shelf whiskey drove you to your need, again.) Waiting for the fixer man, waiting for the fixer man to fix what ailed them.


So not for Algren the small voice pleasant Midwestern farmers providing breadbaskets to the world talking to kindred about prices of wheat and corn walking the road to their proper Sunday white-clad church after a chaste Saturday red barn dance over at Fred Brown’s, the prosperous small town drugstore owners filling official drug prescriptions hot off some doctor’s pad and selling the under-aged liquor as medicine without prescription for whatever the traffic would bear, or of Miss Millie’s beauty salon where the blue-haired ladies get ready for battle and gossip about how Mister so and so had an affair with Miss so and so from the office and how will Mildred whom of course they would never tell to keep the mills rolling do when the whole thing goes public.


Nor was he inclined to push the air out of the small town banker seeking a bigger voice (calling in checks at a moment’s notice), the newspaper publisher seeking to control the voices or the alderman or his or her equivalent who had their own apparatuses for getting their small voices heard. One suspects that he could have written that stuff, written and hacked away his talent like those who in the pull and push of the writing profession had (have) forsake their muses for filthy lucre. No, he, Nelson Algren, he, to give him his due took dead aim at the refuge of society, the lumpen as he put it in the title of one short story, those sitting on the rim of the world.


And he did good, did good by his art, did good by his honest snarly look at the underside of society, and, damn, by making us think about that quarter turn of fate that separated the prosperous farmer (assuming as we must that he, secretly, was not short-weighting the world), the drugstore owner (assuming as we must that he, secretly, was not dispensing his wares, his potent drugs, out the back door to a craving market) , Miss Millie (assuming as we must that she, secretly, was not running a call girl service on the side), the banker (assuming as we must that he, maybe secretly maybe not, was not gouging rack rents and usurious interest), the newspaper editor (assuming as we must that he, very publicly, in fact was printing all the news fit to print), and the politician (assuming as we must that he, secretly, was not bought and paid for by all of the above, or others) from the denizens of his mean streets. The mean city streets, mainly of Chicago, but that is just detail, just names of streets and sections of town to balance his work where his characters eked out an existence, well, anyway they could, some to turn up face down in some muddy ravine, under some railroad trestle, in some dime flop house, other to sort of amble along in the urban wilderness purgatory.


 


Brother Algren gave us characters to chew on, plenty of characters, mostly men, mostly desperate (in the very broadest sense of that word), mostly with some jones to work off, mostly with some fixer man in the background to wreak havoc too. He gave us two classics of the seamy side genre, one, from The Man With The Golden Arm, the misbegotten Frankie Machine, the man with the golden needle arm, the man with the chip on his shoulder, the mid-century(20th century, okay) man ill at ease in his world, ill at ease with the world and looking, looking for some relief, some kicks in that mid-century parlance, and, two, from Walk On The Wild Side, that hungry boy, that denizen of the great white trash night, Dove Linkhorn, who, perhaps more than Frankie spoke to that mid-century angst, spoke to that world gone wrong, for those who had just come up, come up for some place where time stood still to gain succor in the urban swirl, to feast at the table, come up from the back forty lots, the prairie golden harvest wheat fields, the Ozarks, all swamps and ooze, mountain wind hills and hollows, the infested bayous and were ready to howl, howl at the moon to get attention.


I remember reading somewhere, and I have forgotten where now, that someone had noted that Nelson Algren’s writing on Dove Linkhorn’s roots was the most evocative piece on the meaning of the okie–arkie out migration segment of that mid-century America ever written, the tale of the wandering boys, the railroad riders, the jungle camp jumpers, the skid row derelicts. Hell, call it by its right name, the white trash, that lumpen mush. And he or she was right, of course, after I went back and re-read that first section of Walk On The Wild Side where the Linkhorn genealogy back unto the transport ships that brought the first crop of that ilk from thrown out Europe are explored. All the pig thieves, cattle-rustlers, poachers, highwaymen, the -what did some sociologist call them?, oh yeah, “the master-less men,” those who could not or would not be tamed by the on-rushing wheels of free-form capitalism as the system relentlessly picked up steam, the whole damn lot transported. And good riddance.


The population of California after World War II was filled to the brim with such types, the feckless “hot rod” boys, boys mostly too young to have been though the bloodbaths of Europe and Asia building some powerful road machines out of baling wire and not much else, speeding up and down those ocean-flecked highways looking for the heart of Saturday night, looking for kicks just like those Chicago free-flow junkies, those twisted New Orleans whoremasters. Wandering hells angels riding two by two (four by four if they felt like it and who was to stop them) creating havoc for the good citizens of those small towns they descended on, descended on unannounced (and unwelcomed by those same good citizens). In and out of jail, Q, Folsom, not for stealing pigs now, but armed robberies or some egregious felony, but kindred to those lost boys kicked out of Europe long ago. Corner boys, tee-shirted, black leather jacket against cold nights, hanging out with time on their hands and permanent smirks, permanent hurts, permanent hatreds, paid to that Algren observation. All the kindred of the cutthroat world, or better “cut your throat” world, that Dove drifted into was just a microcosm of that small-voiced world.


He spoke of cities, even when his characters came fresh off the farm, abandoned for the bright lights of the city and useless to that short-weighting farmer who now is a prosperous sort, making serious dough as the breadbasket to the world. They, the off-hand hot rod king, the easy hell rider, the shiftless corner boy, had no existence, no outlets for their anger and angst, in small towns and hamlets for their vices, or their virtues, too small, too small for the kicks they were looking for. They needed the anonymous city rooming house, the cold-water flat, the skid- row flop house, the ten- cent beer hall, hell, the railroad jungle, any place where they could just let go with their addictions, their anxieties, and their hunger without having to explain, endlessly explain themselves, always, always a tough task for the small-voiced of this wicked old world. They identified with cities, with city 24/7/365 lights, with Algren’s blessed neon lights, city traffic (of all kinds), squalor, cops on the take, cops not on the take, plebeian entertainments, sweat, a little dried blood, marked veins, reefer madness, swilled drinks, white towers, all night diners (see it always comes back to that lonely, alienated Nighthawk Diner just ask Waits), the early editions (for race results, the number, who got dead that day, the stuff of that world), a true vision of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawk for a candid world.




He spoke of jazz and the blues, as if all the hell in this wicked old world could be held off for a minute while that sound sifted thought the night fog air reaching the rooming house, the flop, the ravine, the beer hall as it drifted out to the river and drowned. Music not upfront but as a backdrop to while the steamy summer nights away, and maybe the frigid lake front winter too. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, he spoke of a small-voiced white world, residents of white slums and pursuers of white- etched dreams and only stick character blacks but his beat, his writing rhythm made no sense without the heat of Trouble In Mind or that cool blast of Charlie Parker, Miles, Dizzie be-bopping, made absolutely no sense, and so it went.



He spoke of love too. Not big flamed love, big heroes taking big falls for some hopeless romance like in olden times but squeezed love, love squeezed out of a spoon, maybe, but love in all its raw places. A guy turning his woman into a whore to feed his endless habit love, and her into a junkie love. A woman taking her man through cold turkey love. A man letting his woman go love, ditto woman her man when the deal went wrong. When the next best thing came by. Not pretty love all wrapped in a bow, but love nevertheless. And sometimes in this perverse old world the love a man has for a woman when, failing cold turkey, he goes to get the fixer man and that fixer man get his woman well, almost saintly and sacramental. Brothers and sisters just read The Last Carousel if you want to know about love. Hard, hard love. Yah, Nelson Algren knew how to give voice, no holds barred, to the small-voiced people.