Monday, February 06, 2017

A View From The Left -Mexico: Mass Protests over Gas Price Hike

Workers Vanguard No. 1104
27 January 2017
 
Capitalist Democrats and Republicans Bleed Mexico
Mexico: Mass Protests over Gas Price Hike
For Socialist Revolutions on Both Sides of the Border!
Hundreds of thousands have taken to the streets across Mexico since January 1 in protests against the gasolinazo—the imposition of an increase in gasoline prices of up to 20 percent by the PRI (Institutional Revolutionary Party) government of President Enrique Peña Nieto. This attack on Mexico’s workers, peasants and poor has resulted in the largest mobilizations in history in several states and cities. Protesters in the states bordering the U.S. have repeatedly shut down toll booths and border crossings.
The almost complete media blackout of the protests in the U.S. is not an accident. The U.S. imperialist rulers are clearly worried about continuing instability south of the border and want to keep working people in the U.S. ignorant of the struggles by their Mexican class brothers and sisters. Helping to fuel the protests in Mexico is the enormous fear and loathing provoked by newly elected president Donald Trump, who has missed no opportunity to revile the Mexican people. Trump’s protectionist tirades have already caused Ford and GM to reconsider investment in Mexico, while the Mexican peso, already on a slide, has hit all-time lows in recent weeks following anti-Mexico pronouncements by Trump and his new secretary of commerce. The multiracial U.S. proletariat has a particular obligation to oppose the depredations of the U.S. imperialist behemoth, which has condemned millions of Mexican workers and peasants to hunger and joblessness under both Democratic and Republican administrations.
The gasolinazo is a result of the phasing out of price controls as part of the union-busting energy reform approved by the Mexican Congress in 2013, which opened up PEMEX, the nationalized oil industry, to foreign investment. The moves to sell off PEMEX are part of a wave of privatizations demanded by the U.S. rulers to open up the country to untrammeled imperialist plunder. The NAFTA free trade agreement has long served this purpose, devastating the Mexican countryside and massively increasing urban poverty. Workers in the U.S. must oppose NAFTA out of solidarity with Mexico’s exploited and oppressed. Such proletarian internationalist opposition to NAFTA has nothing in common with the chauvinist protectionism pushed by both Trump and the AFL-CIO officialdom.
The struggles for workers revolutions in Mexico and the U.S. are intimately linked, including through the agency of the millions of Mexican immigrants who are an important component of the U.S. proletariat. In order to overcome the divisions between native-born and immigrant workers, which hamstring the working class, it is necessary to struggle against the vicious anti-immigrant bigotry promoted by the capitalist Democrats and Republicans. No deportations! Full citizenship rights for all immigrants!
We print below an article written by our comrades of the Grupo Espartaquista de México, section of the International Communist League.
*   *   *
The up to 20 percent increase in the price of fuel imposed by the hated government of Enrique Peña Nieto is the result of privatization and condemns the already impoverished masses of Mexico to misery and hunger. The government had the support of the PAN [right-wing clericalist National Action Party] and the majority of PRD [Party of the Democratic Revolution] legislators. Relative to the minimum wage, gasoline in Mexico is now more expensive than almost anywhere else in the world. The cost of basic foods is expected to rise significantly. Public transportation fares, already exorbitant especially outside of Mexico City, have increased, as have electricity rates.
Together with the precipitous fall of the peso against the dollar, the gasolinazo seems to have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Outrage has spread throughout the country since January 1. There have been mass protests in dozens of cities—for example, 20,000 people in Monterrey on January 5, 40,000 people in Mexicali on the 15th and 60,000 in Guadalajara on the 22nd. Also on January 22, over 5,000 workers, mostly of Local 271 of the miners and steel workers union, marched in the port city of Lázaro Cárdenas, Michoacán. PEMEX terminals have been blockaded in at least nine states. The railroad crossing at the Sonora-Arizona border was obstructed, impeding the flow of imports and exports for several days. The government has responded with a huge deployment of police, the guard dogs of the bourgeoisie. The brutal repression has resulted in over 1,500 arrests and at least five deaths. Free all the arrested now!
In order to fight against this crisis unleashed by the Mexican capitalists and their imperialist patrons, the power of the working class must be mobilized at the head of all the oppressed against this inhumane system of exploitation and oppression. The working class, which operates all the machinery of modern industrial capitalism, has enormous social power deriving from its relationship to the means of production. The Grupo Espartaquista de México fights to build a revolutionary workers party like the Bolshevik Party of V.I. Lenin and Leon Trotsky, which led the proletariat to power in Russia in the 1917 October Revolution. As part of this perspective, today we advocate a program of proletarian action based on demands linking the fight for the urgent and immediate needs of the masses to a struggle to destroy the whole capitalist system through socialist revolution.
Against austerity and unemployment, workers must fight for: A sliding scale of wages to keep up with the cost of living! Jobs for all through a shorter workweek with no loss in pay! Against the gasolinazo and rampant deprivation: for price-control committees composed of delegates from the factories, unions, cooperatives, peasant organizations and the urban poor! Against imperialist plunder, the working class must fight for the nationalization of key industries like energy. Expropriate the banks, utilities, transportation and the ports!
Confronted by such a struggle, the bourgeoisie will say that it is impossible to provide jobs for all, or to ensure that all families have sufficient food, housing and decent living conditions, given that it would hurt profits. This will show the masses that the capitalist system deserves to perish and that the imposition of such simple and rational measures requires the expropriation of the expropriators, the entire bourgeoisie. In this way, we seek to advance revolutionary consciousness among workers and to destroy the illusions promoted by the bourgeois-populist PRD and Morena [former PRD presidential candidate Andrés Manuel López Obrador’s Movement for National Regeneration] that the capitalist system can be reformed to serve the interests of the exploited and oppressed. It is necessary to abolish private property in the means of production through a socialist revolution that establishes a workers and peasants government.
Trump and Peña Nieto: The Master Repudiates the Lackey
For decades, the Mexican bourgeoisie and its governments have obsequiously followed imperialist diktats. They have opened up the Mexican economy to unrestricted pillage by the U.S. bourgeoisie through massive privatizations, elimination of agricultural subsidies, anti-union attacks and, above all, through NAFTA, a treaty for the rape of Mexico. At the same time, a handful of Mexican capitalists have enriched themselves in the shadow of their masters. The result for the masses has been a devastated countryside and growing desperation among the remaining millions of peasants, many of them utterly miserable and oppressed indigenous people; massive unemployment poorly disguised as the “informal economy”; an increasing dependence on the import of basic foodstuffs. The purpose of NAFTA is to strengthen the North American imperialists against their European and Japanese rivals. While in Mexico it has brought abject and generalized misery, in the U.S. and Canada it has served the bourgeois imperialists as a means to attack the standard of living of the working class, provoke mass layoffs and severely weaken the unions.
Not content, the imperialist masters demand more. The racist demagogue Trump now seems to want to abandon his Mexican bourgeois lackeys to their fate by demanding to renegotiate NAFTA in order to make it even more beneficial to the imperialists, on the basis of rabid protectionism. But let us not forget for a single moment that it was Democrat Bill Clinton who pushed for and rolled out NAFTA. His wife Hillary, as secretary of state under Obama, was the one who devised the scheme to privatize Mexico’s oil. And it was Obama, until recently the “Deporter in Chief,” who broke the record for deportations by a single U.S. president—more than two million. Democrats and Republicans are both parties of U.S. imperialism.
In a joint statement issued by the Spartacist League/U.S., the Trotskyist League of Canada and the Grupo Espartaquista de México, sections of the International Communist League, we explained, “The fight against the FTA [NAFTA] is a battle against American imperialist domination of Mexico” and declared: “We call on Mexican, U.S. and Canadian workers to join in opposing this anti-labor pact” (WV No. 530, 5 July 1991). A quarter century later, this call not only remains valid but is even more urgent.
Trotskyists do not equate protectionism in neocolonial countries, where it constitutes a measure of national self-defense, with the protectionism of the imperialists, which pushes chauvinism and seeks to bolster the domination of one or another imperialist bourgeoisie. We are opposed to the oil privatization, which took legal effect three years ago, although imperialist investment has been slow in arriving. We say: Down with the privatization of the energy industry! In the context of the 1938 nationalization of oil, James P. Cannon, founder of American Trotskyism, said during a speech he gave in Mexico that same year:
“We know that we cannot overthrow the imperialists of America without the aid of [the] Latin American people who are oppressed by the same imperialism....
“The expropriation of the oil companies is an action which inspires the workers of the entire world. It is too bad that you have to pay these robbers who have been robbing Mexico of its natural resources. In principle the Fourth International is in favor of expropriating the capitalists without any compensation at all. If the Mexican people have to pay compensation it is because they have not yet received enough support from the workers of the U.S.”
The Mexican bourgeoisie and the imperialists have been trying to smash the oil workers union through privatization, which the union’s pro-capitalist bureaucracy criminally supported. This points to the urgency of the struggle for new leadership of the unions, a class-struggle leadership that maintains its independence from any bourgeois party, whether it be the PRI, PAN, PRD or Morena.
For a Workers and Peasants Government!
The main slogan during the current protests, as it has been for some years now, is “Peña Nieto Out!” Peña Nieto should fall. But his replacement by some bourgeois populist like AMLO [Andrés Manuel López Obrador] or his former colleagues of the PRD (not to mention the reactionary clerical and neoliberal PAN) will not bring any substantial improvement to the exploited and oppressed masses. In fact, the fundamental reason Peña Nieto gave for the gasolinazo was that Mexico, an exporter of petroleum, imports more than half the gasoline it consumes. This is an example of the inherent incapacity of the Mexican bourgeoisie to develop the industrial forces of the country.
Regardless of who governs and on what program, capitalist Mexico will continue to be a neocolonial country subjugated by imperialism, subject to market crises and wild fluctuations in the price of crude oil. As Trotsky’s theory of permanent revolution explains, it is not possible to break the imperialist yoke or to satisfy the needs of the population under capitalism.
The bourgeoisie of every country of belated capitalist development is absolutely incapable of breaking with imperialism. As Lenin taught, imperialism is a worldwide system of exploitation and oppression dominated by the big monopolies of finance capital backed by their respective nation-states, with their armies and navies. Due to imperialist penetration, Mexico is a country of combined and uneven development, where modern production techniques coexist with miserable rural backwardness.
Regardless of their ideological differences, the bourgeoisies of the Third World are tied to the imperialists by thousands of threads and are too weak to break their own subordination. The bourgeoisie’s interest is always the generation of profits—the whole capitalist system is aimed at fattening the pockets of a handful of the superrich. The working class is the only class with the social power and class interest to destroy capitalism. Under the leadership of a Leninist-Trotskyist vanguard party, the working class will be able to carry out a socialist revolution and replace the capitalist system with a regime that seeks to fulfill the needs of the population.
The bourgeois state consists centrally of armed bodies (the police, the military, the courts and prisons) to defend the capitalist system of exploitation. It is necessary to destroy the capitalist state and construct a new state power that defends the rule of the working class at the head of all the rural and urban poor. Only a government of workers and poor peasants councils can satisfy the masses’ aspirations for social and national emancipation.
As part of our perspective of permanent revolution, we understand that in order to defend such conquests and proceed on the road to socialism it is necessary to fight for the international extension of the revolution, especially to the U.S. imperialist colossus. A revolution in Mexico would electrify the multiracial U.S. proletariat. Just as Mexican workers must break with the craven bourgeois nationalists of their own country and see the U.S. proletariat as their class brothers, the U.S. proletariat must understand that its interests coincide with those of the Mexican proletariat—and those of the workers of the world—and break with the politics of its bureaucratic misleaders who are loyal to the imperialist Democratic Party.
Unleash the Power of the Working Class!
The bulk of advanced and heavy industry in Mexico—with the exception, for now, of petroleum and electricity—is the product of imperialist investment and destined for export, overwhelmingly to the U.S. As Trotsky explained in “Trade Unions in the Epoch of Imperialist Decay” (1940): “Inasmuch as foreign capital does not import workers but proletarianizes the native population, the national proletariat soon begins playing the most important role in the life of the country.” The bourgeoisie creates its own gravedigger: NAFTA has enlarged the ranks of the industrial proletariat—for example, Mexico is today the fourth-largest exporter of automobiles. The Mexican and U.S. economies are profoundly interpenetrated, something the working class can use to its advantage. If Mexican auto workers exercised their social power, they could paralyze the whole complex of U.S. automotive production.
The unions are currently weakened by the long-running neoliberal offensive, including historic defeats such as the destruction of the Mexican Union of Electrical Workers and massive privatizations. At the same time, today’s protests are politically dominated by bourgeois populists and, especially in Mexico City, by elitist, petty-bourgeois elements. It is necessary for the unions to mobilize in defense of their own interests and those of all the poor. Strike action by powerful sectors of the Mexican proletariat—such as the miners and oil workers unions—could make the weak Mexican bourgeoisie tremble and could challenge the bourgeois state’s starvation attacks and repression. This requires a political struggle against the pro-capitalist bureaucracies, which tie the unions to the bourgeois parties and caudillos, and for their replacement with a class-struggle leadership. For the political independence of the workers movement! To begin to reverse the anti-union attacks, it is necessary to fight to organize the unorganized, including subcontracted workers.
Internationalist Group Joins Bosses’ Drive Against Oil Workers Union
The government, which is trying to sell the rights to the oil platforms, has launched the current attack to undo petroleum price controls in order to increase the profitability of the oil assets they are putting on the auction block. They need to demonstrate that their imperialist masters will be able to make enough money from the blood, sweat and tears of the Mexican masses. This is also an attack against the oil workers union. Carlos Loret de Mola of Televisa [giant media company] ranted that behind the “chaos” caused by the “blockades and looting” was the hidden hand of the oil workers union. According to the newspaper El Financiero (16 January), the union “has become a liability to national development.”
The Grupo Internacionalista (GI) [Internationalist Group] has joined the bourgeois spokesmen who support the campaign to destroy the oil workers union. Far from defending the union against the bosses’ new offensive, in a recent leaflet (misdated January 2016), the GI affirms “the bourgeois character of the charro ‘unions,’ which are nothing other than labor fronts integrated into the capitalist state, that serve as veritable labor police to repress all attempts at resistance on the part of the workers.” Whatever its rhetoric, for the GI the class character of the Mexican unions is determined by which bourgeois party they are tied to. Thus, according to the GI, the supposedly “bourgeois” unions are those that support the PRI, whereas those that support the bourgeois-nationalist PRD or Morena are quite “genuine.” But the bureaucracy of the telephone workers union, for example, to this day led by the everlasting Francisco Hernández Juárez, who cheered the privatization of his own industry 25 years ago, is just as charro [sell-out] as that of the oil workers union. Nonetheless, for the GI, the telephone workers union is a “genuine” workers union. How to understand the GI’s nonsense? The key detail is that Hernández Juárez supports the PRD; Romero Deschamps [leader of the oil workers union] supports the wrong bourgeois party (the PRI).
The GI had to surreptitiously “correct” a previous, almost identical version of its leaflet by making a few changes. Among these was its inadvertent reference to the corporatist unions as “unions” [sindicatos], which the GI subsequently changed to “guilds” [gremios]. The GI goes on to say, “It is necessary to overcome all guildism” [gremialismo]. This is the GI’s politically cowardly way of saying that it is necessary to destroy the corporatist unions from within—i.e., do the bosses’ dirty work for them. The GI also explained in its revised leaflet, “Local 22 of the dissident teachers can be instrumental in making a joint struggle of diverse guilds of workers against the government offensive a reality.” The CNTE teachers of Local 22—which the GI has tailed for years—is tied to the bourgeois caudillo AMLO through its own bureaucracy. Of course, the GI does not mention the CNTE’s support to Morena and AMLO when it nominates the dissident teachers to occupy the “instrumental” position in organizing other workers. So for the GI, the “complete independence from the bourgeoisie” will be realized once powerful sectors like the oil workers also tail AMLO. And perhaps then the GI will grant the union its imprimatur as a “genuine” workers union.
In spite of the fact that the unions are under pro-capitalist leadership, the defense of the unions (the elementary organizations of the working class) against the attacks of the bosses and their state is a minimum condition for a struggle for the political independence of the workers movement. We don’t identify unionized workers with their bureaucracies, nor do we identify the bureaucracy with the bourgeoisie. The working class should clean its own house! As Trotsky taught in “Trade Unions in the Epoch of Imperialist Decay”: the fight for union democracy “presupposes for its realization the complete freedom of the trade unions from the imperialist or colonial state.” He went on to note: “As a matter of fact, the independence of the trade unions in the class sense, in their relations to the bourgeois state, can, in the present conditions, be assured only by a completely revolutionary leadership, that is, the leadership of the Fourth International.”
Bourgeois Hysteria over Looting
During the protests, there were some who took the opportunity to obtain a few consumer goods for free from department stores like Elektra—which belongs to the magnate Ricardo Salinas Pliego, who also owns TV Azteca—and from big grocery chains like Aurrerá and Walmart. Some seem to have managed to recover their own belongings from the infamous pawnshop loan sharks. These acts occurred in some of the country’s poorest towns, including in Veracruz, Hidalgo and the miserable suburbs of Mexico City, like Ecatepec and Zumpango. The mass media and myriad petty-bourgeois types on social media whipped up a lynch mob campaign against “looters.” AMLO came out with the reactionary line that looting constitutes a “fascist strategy.”
Like altar boys from the choir, the bulk of the left has added its voice to the bourgeois clamor. For example, the pseudo-Trotskyist Izquierda Socialista [Socialist Left] and the Movimiento de los Trabajadores Socialistas [Movement of Socialist Workers], which tail Morena and AMLO, speak of infiltration by PRI supporters and acts of vandalism. This hysteria is nothing more than elitist indifference to the generalized misery in which large sections of the population live. The Mexican masses have had their bread, jobs, land and homes stolen, and are now fighting merely to survive. The few acts of looting that occurred at the beginning of January were neither a radical tactic nor a crime from the standpoint of the working class; they were simply a reflection of the desperation of the poor. The real looters are those who have driven the country to misery and humiliation. Mobilize the social power of the working class against the repression!
The terrible imperialist oppression suffered by the Mexican masses has fed nationalist illusions of false unity between the exploited and the exploiters on the basis of a supposed common purpose in advancing the interests of the “fatherland.” The GEM fights to build the proletarian vanguard party that seeks to rip the masses’ loyalty away from the nationalist-populist bourgeoisie, combating illusions in democratic reform of the bourgeois state and directing the masses’ struggles toward the seizure of power by the proletariat. Our perspective, like that of Lenin and Trotsky, is internationalist. We Spartacists of the International Communist League fight to reforge the Trotskyist Fourth International in order to carry out new October Revolutions around the world.

In Massachusetts Support The Safe Communities Act-Don't Support Aiding ICE Immigrant Round-Ups -Build The Resistance!

In Massachusetts Support The Safe Communities Act-Don't Support Aiding ICE Immigrant Round-Ups  


The Latest From The Partisan Defense Commitee-Chelsea Manning And Ocsar Lopez Rivera Freed-Leonard Peltier Must Not Die In Jail




***Poet’s Corner- Langston Hughes- Mother To Son

***Poet’s Corner- Langston Hughes- Mother To Son

 




From The Pen Of Frank Jackman



February is Black History Month



Mother To Son



Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.




Langston Hughes



Clarence Martin knew, knew deep in his bones, that he would now have to talk to his just turned ten son, Lanny (full name Langston, named after the old Harlem Renaissance poet, Langston Hughes, whom he, and the brothers, had learned about and went “max daddy” be-bop hip-hop crazy over in that GED class at Norfolk when he had done his last stretch, that last and no more stretch for that damn liquor store armed robbery), now that he had made that first midget turn toward “the life” with that foolish “clip” he got caught doing over at Mr. Earl’s Jewelry Store in Roxbury Crossing (he would not tell his son, not for the world, that he too had clipped his fair share of jewelry from that very same establishment although he had never gotten caught in those days before every two-bit place had monitors all over the place). He would have to call his ex-wife, Lanny’s mother, Essie, and make arrangements for them to meet in some neutral place and have it out, have it out about the black facts of life in America, and about taking that midget turn back, back to rolling that rock up the mountain like that old Greek guy did.

As Clarence thought about how to approach his son, about how to tell him about his own troubles with the law that he and Essie had kept from him since Lanny had not even been born when, he, young wild buck he, got his wanting habits on and caused his own Mama and Papa some serious hell. He figured that he would just lay it on the line, man to man, even though at ten Lanny might not understand the whole thing. He would try to explain about a boy’s wanting habits, a boy fresh up from deep in the Jim Crow south, a boy born on some Mister’s sharecrop plantation and then early on moved up into a northern ghetto (over on high number Washington Street where his own parents still lived) where it seemed like the streets were paved with gold, although his people had no gold, no gold to satisfy his wanting habits.

So it had started, started simply for him and his corner boys, a hustle here, a jack-roll there, a little time at Morton Street, some street dope, some walking daddy pimp action (of his own girlfriend at the time and her sister for Chrissakes), then his graduate education-armed robberies for quick nickels and dimes to feed a burgeoning coke habit, then the big house. Graduated and done. A normal profile for a couple of generations of black boys, maybe three. He wouldn’t hold back (except that silly clip action at Mister Earl’s because he didn’t want any “like father like son” noise from Lanny, or Essie either).

Then he would point to his own turnaround, his job as head janitor at the John Hancock building in the Back Bay, and the slow and steady rising up of his own life. Nothing big, but he was still alive to talk about it, unlike the five other members of his Uphams Corner jive ass corner boy society who were either six feet under or sitting in some big steel house, mostly the former. He would tell him of Langston Hughes, no not the poet part (although the brother was still the “max daddy” be-bop hip-hop angel high priest) but getting wise in stir, getting wise inside and figuring out after that last stretch that he was either going be dead by thirty or a permanent resident of the underclass either in the big house, or out in some nowhere scene. So he got his GED, picked up some usable trade skills and shook the prison pallor off. And never looked backed, even if the road forward was not going to be blazing guns.

And then he would lay it on the line that ten-year old black boys, Lanny black as the night black boys, were born to die at thirty (maybe earlier), were born to have their wanting habits curtailed, were born to spent time in Mister’s steel boxes, were born to wither and die in some sleepy crack house, were as likely to be blown away just for breathing wrong by some blue-suited bastard or some irate honky, as for anything else. He would leave it at that he thought enough to fill up a grown man’s hurts, to fill up a strong grown man’s hurts and sorrows.

A minute later Clarence Martin, father, black father, black father with a story to tell dialed up Essie’s number on his cellphone and when she answered he said, “Hey, Essie, how’s things, I need to talk to Lanny, I need to talk to my son bad… ’’

*Poets' Corner-Langston Hughes' Tribute To John Brown- "October 16"-The Cold Civil War Has Started-Join The Resistance

*Poets' Corner-Langston Hughes' Tribute To John Brown- "October 16"



February Is Black History Month


October 16-Langston Hughes

Perhaps
You will remember
John Brown.

John Brown
Who took his gun,
Took twenty-one companions
White and black,
Went to shoot your way to freedom
Where two rivers meet
And the hills of the
North
And the hills of the
South
Look slow at one another-
And died
For your sake.

Now that you are
Many years free,
And the echo of the Civil War
Has passed away,
And Brown himself
Has long been tried at law,
Hanged by the neck,
And buried in the ground-
Since Harpers Ferry
Is alive with ghost today,
Immortal raiders
Come again to town-

Perhaps
You will recall
John Brown.

The Harp Beneath The Crown- With The Chieftains In Mind

The Harp Beneath The Crown- With The Chieftains In Mind

By Sam Eaton

“I’m as Irish as the next goddam bogger,” shouted Jack Callahan, “I just don’t like to wear it on my sleeve. I don’t have to break out in song every time I think about what my maternal grandfather, Daniel Patrick Riley and that should be Irish enough for you, called the “old sod.” For him it was the old sod since his own grandparents had come over on the “famine” ships in the 1840s after the bloody Brits had starved them out of County Kerry with their wicked enclosure policies so they could have grazing land for their sheep or something and they, the Brits hoarding enough food for a full larder for everyone and the starved broken bodied piling up on the roads after eating tree bark or something you wouldn’t feed a pig. At least that was the way my grandfather told me his grandfather told him.” 

Jack’s whole uproar over his heritage, over his bloody green flag, harp beneath the crown heritage had been brought about innocently enough as he and Bradley Fox, a friend whom he had known since his school days at Riverdale High, sat in The Plough and Stars bar on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge when Bradley had mentioned that the Chieftains would again be doing their yearly series of shows around Saint Patrick’s at the Wang Center in downtown Boston and had assumed that Jack would once again jump at the chance to show his green side.

And that outburst was the way that Jack had answered him with some put-upon air of righteous indignation that he had to prove himself and his Irish-ness. Prove it he added to a half-breed like Bradley whose own father was descended from the bloody Brits, had only with fire and determination on his mother’s part had he been brought up in the true church rather than some heathen Protestant chapel with those god-awful hail high Jehovah psalms beseeching an unjust god to forgive them their bloody heathen sins, and who had only been saved by his mother’s full-blooded Irish lineage (his mother’s great-great grandfather having come over on the famine ships with Jack’s maternal great-great-great grandfather if that was the right number of “greats”)from being totally ostracized in the whole neighborhood by the old “shawlies” who commented on every little deviation. So no this year he would not be going to the annual concert, maybe would not even go to the Saint Patrick’s Parade over in South Boston which he had been going to since he was a kid although less frequently over the previous few years as he had lost patience with the drunks, the rowdies and the one-day-a-year Irish. The Polish Irish they would call them when they were kids, the Poles being the other big ethnic group in the town, the ones who worked on the watch factories that had dotted the river in those days. They would come into school on Saint Pat’s Day all in green calling themselves MacWalecki or something. That was the way the two old friends left it that night, left like they did many a blow-up argument with a semi-smile since half the time after a certain hour or a certain number of whiskeys they would collapse in on their arguments. This one had that same fate.            

[What Bradley did not know that night, did not know for several more weeks, was that Chrissie (nee McNamara) Callahan, Jack’s wife of many more years than any of them wanted to count and who had been the classic high school sweethearts was giving signals that she wanted to leave Jack now that the kids were grown and they were “empty-nesters.” Wanted to in her words “find herself” before it was too late and that she had felt like a stranger in Jack’s presence. That fate weighted heavily on Jack since Chrissie had been his rock through those many years and he was not sure what he would do if she left him high and dry like that. Tried to argue her out of her thoughts always going back to the usually tried and true argument about how they had first gotten together and that night had pledged their eternal love. Bradley had known that story since he had been at Molly’s Diner the night it happened. Jack had had a crush on Chrissie since sixth grade when she had invited him to her twelfth birthday party and as such things went at “petting parties” she had given him a big kiss that he never really forgot about. But being shy and self-conscious he never pursued the matter. Time passed and as they entered high school it turned out that Jack was a hell of a football player who led his team to the state division championship senior year.

So Jack could have had any girl he wanted from sophomore year on. But he still retained his Chrissie thing and his shyness. Chrissie had been harboring some such feelings as well although as more outgoing and a beautiful girl she did not lack for dates and the evil intentions of guys. One Friday night in the later fall of sophomore year though she had had enough and knowing that Jack and the boys would be at Molly’s playing the latest rock hits on Molly’s jukebox while having their burgers and fries she went into Molly’s front door, drew a bee-line to Jack, and to Jack’s lap. The way Bradley always described it later was that Chrissie had had such a look of determination on her face that it would have taken the whole football team to get her off that lap. A look a Jack said that it would take the whole football team and the junior varsity too to get her off his lap. So that night their eternal love thing started. Jack had told Bradley in confidence that he could have had anything Chrissie had to offer that night when they left Molly’s for Jack to take her home. That would come later, the next spring when on Saint Patrick’s’ Day night after the parade was over and after they had both consumed too many illegal beers they went over to nearby Carson Beach and Chrissie had given Jack all she had to offer. So those mist of memories had been were driving Jack dyspeptic response to Bradley’s question.]              

Later that night after Jack got back to Hingham where he had his business, his Toyota car dealership (he was perennially Mr. Toyota in Eastern Massachusetts), and his too big house, Chrissie asleep upstairs (in one of the kids’ bedrooms, so that was the way things were just then) turned the light on and went into his den. Sat down on his easy chair and turned the light off. He had just wanted to think in the gentle dark about how he was going keep Chrissie with him but he found that he started to drift back to the days in Riverdale when he was a kid and being Irish meant a lot to him, felt he had to uphold the Easter, 1916 brotherhood, had to buck the trend that his parents and their generation had bought into-becoming vanilla Americans. Losing the old country identities that men like his grandfather held too with granite determination in the flow of too many other trends driving them away from what they had been, where they had come from in this great big immigrant-driven country.           

All the funny little rites of passage. First of all listening to his grandfather’s stories about the heroic men of 1916 (women too but they slipped through cracks in his telling the womenfolk being held in the background in that generation), above all James Connelly who had place of pride on his grandfather’s piazza wall. Then the times once his grandfather was in his cups a bit the singing of all the old songs, some he had never heard of then but which later he would find were ancient songs going back to Cromwell’s bloody hellish times. Later when he and his friends, usually not Bradley since his father was adamant that he not attend some frivolous doings, would sneak out of school, walk to the bus which would take them to the Redline subway station and over to South Boston and the Saint Pat’s Parade. See that day, March 17th was a holiday in Boston and Suffolk County, not Saint Pat’s Day but Evacuation Day, the day the colonial patriots drove the bloody Brits out of Boston during the American Revolution. But Riverdale in Middlesex County did not get a holiday hence the sneaking out of school.

Of course of all the Saint Pat’s Days the night he took all Chrissie had to offer stood well above all others. He thought about how Chrissie, all prim and proper on the outside, at first refused to skip school until he made a fuse over it that he wouldn’t have any fun without her. That got to her, and so they went with Jimmy Jenkins, Frankie Riley and a couple of other girls whose names he could not remember over to South Boston. They ran into one of Jack’s older cousins who gave them some beers. At first Chrissie balked at drinking the stuff but Jack said just take a sip and if she didn’t like it that was that. Well she liked it well enough that day (which was probably the last time she had beer since thereafter it was respectfully Southern Comfort, mixed gin drinks, and later various types of wine). They drank most of the afternoon, had somehow lost the rest of the crowd from Riverdale and Jack saw his big play. He asked Chrissie if she wanted to go to the beach to sit on the seawall and watch the ocean before going home. She didn’t resist that idea.  So they went to Carson Beach as it was starting to get dark, went to a secluded area near the L Street Bathhouse, and started to “make out.” Jack began to fondle her breasts and she didn’t push him away, didn’t push him away as he put his hand between her thighs either, actually held his hands there. And so they as they saying went after a Howlin’ Wolf song they had heard on Molly’s jukebox did the “do the do” for first time. He blushed as he thought about that first time and how they, foolish high school kids, didn’t have any “protection,” didn’t even think about such an idea. Later they got wise but then they were as naïve about sex and what to do, or not do, about it as any two Irish kids could be.

Jack as he sat there in dark then thought enough of this or he might head up those stairs, kids’ room or not. But above all that night he thought about his sainted grandmother, Anna, by his account, by all accounts, a saint if for no other reason than she had put up with his grandfather and his awful habits but also because she was the sweetest woman in the whole neighborhood and was not, it bears repeating, not afraid of the “shawlies” and their vicious grapevine (which had even caught wind of his and Chrissie’s trysts although they denied the whole thing every time somebody mentioned it-they were after all as good  virginal Catholics as anybody else in the neighborhood so there). He then remembered how when he was young she would sing the songs from the old country while she was doing the washing (the old-fashioned way with scrub board and wringer, clothesline-dried), Brendan on the Moor, Kevin Barry, The Rising of the Moon, and many others. He would always request The Coast of Malabar, ask her to sing it twice when she was in the mood. Such a song of being away from home. He always loved it when the Chieftains played the song as a part of their show.          

Jack had that song on his mind the next morning when after Chrissie had come down for her morning coffee he asked her, half expecting to be turned down, if she wanted to go to the Chieftains concert in March. She brightened and said “yes, yes of course.” Later that day he sheepishly called Bradley and told him to order three tickets for the Chieftains concert. Bradley chuckled. Enough said.         

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

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




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


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

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

JOIN US FOR A GENERAL STRIKE!!!

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

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

On February 17th We SHUT IT DOWN!

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

Our Demands:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Search Of… Part Two-With Lost Loves In Mind

In Search Of… Part Two-With Lost Loves In Mind






By Bart Webber


“You know, Dad, the only good thing that came out of the break-up with Moira, okay, okay her leaving in the middle of the night when I was sleeping leaving no forwarding address, and I still don’t know where she landed since she shut off the cellphone she was using when she left, was that I finally cooled the fire in my head a little, finally gained a little peace. Funny it came through taking up meditation which I used to laugh at when Moira would urge me to think about doing it to relax my fevered head a bit. Used to call it just another one of those New Age things that she was always touting as the next best cure for what ailed humankind,” Dan Hawkins said to his uncomprehending father, Jethro, a man he until a few years before had been estranged from once the old man had divorced his late mother to run off with some floozy he had been having years on the QT and who when the deal went down had left him flat and broken, broken-hearted and financially broke. They had only reconciled after his mother’s funeral when it seemed that such mending needed doing.

That incomprehension by old Jethro, maybe bewilderment would be a better way to put the matter, about what Dan had just told him was nothing but the truth as the old man was “old school,” had grown up in utter poverty in Riverdale, had done his time in ‘Nam along many others of his generation (some who now have their names engraved in black marble down in D.C.) and had been and was proud of his service and exhibited all the traits of those young men, white men,  who had come of age in the late 1950s and were unaffected, or claimed to be unaffected, by all the bullshit, Jethro’s term, that passed for wisdom during the counter-cultural 1960s. So his running off with some floozy, his heavy drinking (and at one point drug use, cocaine and hash mostly which he got from “connections” going back to ‘Nam days and the Golden Triangle), his sense of Vietnam, my country right or wrong, patriotism were all of a piece. All of piece that would make something like meditation, something he had seen the Buddhists do in Vietnam while good  Americans like him were taking care of the shit train that they had let their country fall into by ignoring the “commies” until it was too late. If his wife, if his girlfriends of which he had had many after that floozy slipped away with his dough and his balls, had suggested that he take up meditation for what ailed him he would have shown, had shown for lesser offenses than that, the back of his hand. (And Dan could through a miserable childhood of merciless criticism, and back hands, testify to the truth of that statement. A truth that contributed mightily to those many years of estrangement between the two men.)         

“What the fuck are you talking about, Dan? How the hell was whatever that meditation bullshit that ball-buster Moira was trying to lay on you going to help keep you to together when she wanted to run the show, ’’ old Jethro answered back with that unknowing grin on his face that what Dan should have done was given her his back hand, and maybe a couple of good fucks and that would have stopped that noise.

“Dad, you can’t do that with women anymore and you probably couldn’t even in your day and if you had tried to lay a hand on Ma she would have left you high and dry way before you got tangled up that floosy Susie that broke you. I don’t want to talk about that, okay. Just hear me out with a word and maybe you can learn something for once,” Dan responded plaintively. His father almost began to say something nasty but the look in Dan’s eye told him to back off.  

This is the way Dan’s old high school friend, Rich Bruce, remembered what Dan had said to his father one night when they were having dinner at Elmer’s Diner in old town Riverdale where Rich still lived when Dan needed to confide in somebody about what he was trying to do to be less distraught about Moira’s quick disappearance from his life.    

“Although at first Dan and Moira were crazy in love like many twenty-somethings who were going through their first serious love affairs right from the start there had been tensions, tensions caused by Dan always being in overdrive as he was starting his career in law at a major law firm, Dale, Dale, and Rutgers where the pressure was great to perform or hit the bricks. Dan had met Moira one night at Jeff’s Grille, a local hang-out for law students at Suffolk once they got over the grind of 1L after he had taken his bar examination and needed to unwind. She was a last year student at the Museum School of Art who was there with a girlfriend and he had asked them if they wanted a drink to celebrate his “victory” since he believed he had passed the damn bar exam thing on the basis of the written questions portion of the two day test. One thing led to another and they started dating and making plans, in the meantime after a couple of months they had moved in together.      

"That’s when the heartache began, that’s when that fire in Dan’s head led to many word fights and Moira’s first threats that things were not working out and that she was leaving. In lieu of that, at least for a while once Dan explained what pressures he was under from the high-pressure law firm he was tied up with, Moira decided to start doing meditation with Don Henderson, the locally famous Buddhist convert who ran classes each week at the Boston Center for Adult Education. Moira admitted for a while that doing her “meds” she called it helped to relieve the tensions between them. After a while though as she became more distraught at Dan’s behavior, including a fear that he might strike he in a keyed-up moment, she was at wits on what to do. She suggested to him that he might benefit from meditation. He blew off that suggestion, laughed at her and said that if anybody he knew every found out that he was doing such a New Age thing he would be laughed out of town.   

"Probably Dan’s response set something off in Moira, he wasn’t sure if that was the moment that triggered her subsequent actions later when he had time to reflect on what had happened after she packed her bags and left but it didn’t help. She got moodier the more he got in that same condition, they made love less often and not as tenderly as before, a sure sign that things were going downhill fast. She would speak wistfully of having to find herself, having to see what she was all about in this wicked old world (Dan’s term, not hers) and the kicker, that she thought Dan’s frenzies were affecting her already delicate health. That last part, the affecting her health part got Dan’s attention and that was when he suggested the trip to Paris. She agreed.        

"The trip to Paris had been great, they saw the museums, ate well, made love better than they had in a while and came back refreshed. Or so Dan thought. A week later, perhaps seeing how great things could be away from the pressure-cooker of their lives together Moira lowered the boom the first time. Said she wanted out. Dan begged her not to go and the only way he could placate her then was to succumb to her request that they go into couples counselling. Dan had hated even the idea of that kind of thing (and when he told his father about what she had asked him to do the old man gave a look like wasn’t he just pussy-whipped). So they went to a counselor in Cambridge that Moira had heard of through her New Age network and while Dan had held his nose at first once he got into the sessions he told Moira that he was in all the way, one hundred percent.      

"Those weekly sessions went on for the better part of a year until he and Moira decided to take a week’s vacation to Maine. That week was another great time for fun at the beach, eating out and doing a few goofy things like playing miniature golf, going bowling, and going to an old-fashioned outdoor drive-in theater. A week later Moira lowered the final boom, packed her bags and left (that threatening to leave and leaving after a great vacation had Dan thinking about Moira’s own psychological problems but not much). Her argument was that like before she had to find herself, see what she was about and still thought Dan was aggravating her medical problems. She also told him in uncertain terms that he had better take stock of himself, seek some help, maybe see Don about doing meditation or he would become a human wreak.          


"Well Dan moped around for a while, several weeks, thinking about where he had let the thing fall apart. Knew that he had been responsible for a lot of what had gone wrong, had been an ass about stuff. Then one day on the bulletin board at the law firm he saw a notice that several institutions in Boston, including Massachusetts General Hospital (MGH) were putting on a Hubweek, a week of social, physical, and medical therapy workshops and lectures to let people calm down essentially. He noticed that one workshop was being held at MGH with a Doctor Herbert Benson, a name he knew from a book he had read that Moira had left around the apartment one time when she was looking for yet another New Age idea. This Doctor Benson had proof, had done research, that practicing meditation would help your health or as Dan put it put out the fire in his head, let him be at peace a little. So he went to the workshop and the rest is history. He started doing that previously scorned meditation. And he felt better, calmer.  Old man Jethro Hawkins’ reaction: WTF. Some things never change.           

*****When The Fight To Turn The World Upside Down Was In Full Flower- With The Doors The Unknown Soldier In Mind

*****When The Fight To Turn The World Upside Down Was In Full Flower- With The Doors The Unknown Soldier In Mind

 
Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Unborn living, living, dead
Bullet strikes the helmet's head

And it's all over
For the unknown soldier
It's all over
For the unknown soldier

Hut, hut, hut ho hee up
Hut, hut, hut ho hee up
Hut, hut, hut ho hee up

Comp'nee, halt
Present, arms

Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder
The unknown soldier

Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Bullet strikes the helmet's head

And, it's all over
The war is over
It's all over
War is over

Well, all over, baby
All over, baby
Oh, over, yeah
All over, baby
Ooh, ha, ha, all over
All over, baby
Oh, woah, yeah, all over
All over, heh

Add song meaning

Songwriters
Robbie Krieger;John Densmore;Jim Morrison;Ray Manzarek

From The Pen of Zack James

There was no seamless thread that wrapped the counter-cultural dominated 1960s up tightly, wrapped it up neatly in a pretty bow all set for posterity except for the media types who lived day by day in those merciful times for scraps to feed the teletype hot wires and by on-the-make politicians who to this day attempt to make capital making sport of what in the final analysis was a half-thought out desire to create the “newer world” that some old-time English poet was harping about. That seamless thread business had been distracting Frank Jackman’s attention of late now that a new generation of media-types are at hand who want to refight that social battle and the politicians are whipping   up the raw meat good old boys and girls and the staid as well to provide the troops for that new battle against some phantom in their heads. Despite all the rhetoric, despite all the books written disclaiming any responsibility by those who led the march, despite all those who have now “seen the light” and have hopped back into the fold in academia and the professions (in fact that march back to what everybody used to call bourgeois society started the day after the whole movement ebbed or the day they got their doctorates or professional degrees) there was some question even in Franks’ own mind about whether “the movement” for all its high gloss publicity and whirlwind effect dominated the play as much as he and his kindred had thought then or can lay claim to these forty plus years later.
Place plenty of weight on Frank’s observation, maybe not to take to the bank but to have some knowledge about the limits to what a whole generation in all its diversity can claim as its own mark on society and history. Place plenty of weight for the very simple reason that he went through the whole thing in almost all of its contradictions. Had been raised under the star of parents who slogged through the Great Depression although that was a close thing, a very close thing for some like Frank’s parents who were desperately poor. His poor besotted mother having to leave home and head west looking, looking for whatever there was out there before coming back home with three dollars in hand, and maybe her virtue how can you ask that question of your mother when you wouldn’t think to look at her when young, later too, that she was capable of sex, not the sex you had at your pleasure with some sweet Maryjane. His father out of the Southern winds, out of tar-roof shack of a cabin, half naked, down in the coal-rich hills and hollows of Appalachia, the poorest of the poor, leaving that desperate place to seek something, some small fame that always eluded him. They together, collectively, slogged through the war, World War II, his father through Pacific fight, the most savage kind, had his fill of that damn island hopping and his mother waiting, fretfully waiting for the other shoe to drop, to hear her man had laid his head down for his country in some salted coral reef or atoll whatever they were. Get this though, gladly, gladly would lay that head down and she if it came right down to it would survive knowing he had laid that precious head down. That was the salts they were made of, the stuff this country was able to produce even if it had very little hand in forming such faithful servants so no one would, no one could deny their simple patriotism, or doubt that they would pass that feeling on to their progeny.
Made that progeny respect their music too, their misty, moody I’ll see you tomorrow, until we meet again, I’ll get by, if I didn’t care music, music fought and won with great purpose. But Frank balked, balked young as he was, with as little understanding as he had, the minute he heard some serious rhythm back-beat absent from that sugary palp his parents wanted to lay on him and he would, young as he was, stand up in his three brother shared room (when they were not around of course for they older “dug” Patti Page and Rosemary Clooney, stuff like that) and dance some phantom dance based on that beat he kept hearing in his head, and wondered whether anybody else heard what he heard (of course later when it was show and tell time in the 1960s that beat would be the thing that glued those who were kindred together, funny they were legion). Caught the tail end of the “beat” thing that those older brothers dismissed out of hand as faggy, as guys “light on their feet” and gals who seemed black-hearted blank and neurotic. But that was prelude, that, what did somebody in some sociology class call it, the predicate.                      
As the 1960s caught Frank by his throat, caught him in its maw as he liked to call it to swishy-dishy literary effect he got “religion” in about six different ways. Got grabbed  when the folk minute held sway, when guys like Bob Dylan and Dave Von Ronk and gals like Joan Baez preached “protest” to the hinterlands, reaching down to places like Frank’s Carver, nothing but a working poor town dependent on the ups and downs of the cranberry business. At one time the town was the cranberry capital of the world or close to it. That up and down business depending too on whether people were working and could afford to throw in cranberry sauce with their turkeys come Thanksgiving and Christmas or would be reduced to the eternal fallback beans and franks. But see Carver was close enough, thirty or forty miles south of Boston to Beacon Hill and Harvard Square to be splashed by that new sound and new way of going on dates too, going to coffeehouses or if times were tough just hang around the Harvard Square’s Hayes-Bickford watching with fascination the drunks, hipsters, dipsters, grifters, winos, hoboes, maybe  an odd whore drinking a cup of joe after some John split on her, but also guys and gals perfecting their acts as folk-singers, poets, artists and writers.
Grabbed on the basis of that protest music to the civil rights movement down South, putting Frank at odds with parents, neighbors and his corner boys around Jack Slack’s bowling alleys. Grabbed too the dope, the hope and every girl he could get his hands on, or get this to tell you about the times since he was at best an okay looking guy, they could get their hands on him, on those bedroom blue eyes of his they called it more times than not, that came with the great summers of love from about 1965 on.
Here’s where the contradictions started get all mixed up with things he had no control over, which he was defenseless against. So grabbed too that draft notice from his friends and neighbors at the Carver Draft Board and wound up a dog soldier in Vietnam for his efforts. Wound up on cheap street for a while when he came back unable to deal with the “real” world for a while. That failure to relate to the “real” world cost him his marriage, a conventional marriage to a young woman with conventional white picket fence, a little lawn, kids, and dogs dreams which only had happened because he was afraid that he would not come back from “Nam in one piece, would never get to marriage for what it was worth. Grabbed the streets for a while before he met a woman, a Quaker woman, who saved him, for a while until he went west with some of his corner boys who had also been washed by the great push. Did the whole on the road hitchhike trip, dope, did communes, did zodiacs of love, did lots of things until the hammer came down and the tide ebbed around the middle of the 1970s. So yeah Frank was almost like a bell-weather, no, a poster child for all that ailed society then, and for what needed to be fixed.      
That decade or so from about 1964 to about 1974 Frank decided as he got trapped in old time thoughts and as he related to his old friend Jack Callahan one night at his apartment in Cambridge as they passed a “joint” between them (some things die hard, or don’t die) was nevertheless beginning to look like a watershed time not just for the first wave immediate post-World War II baby-boomers like him, Jack, Frankie Riley, the late Peter Markin, Sam Lowell and a lot of other guys he passed the corner boy night with (the ones like him born immediately after the war as the troops came home, came off the transports, and guys and gals were all hopped up to start families, figure out how to finance that first white picket fence house and use the GI bill to get a little bit ahead in the world, at least get ahead of their parents’ dead-end great depression woes) who came of social and political age then washed clean by the new dispensation but for the country as a whole. More so since those of the so-called generation of ’68, so called by some wag who decided that the bookends of the rage of the American Democratic Convention in Chicago that year and the defeat of the revolutionary possibilities in France in May of that year signaled the beginning of the ebb tide for the whole thing, for those who are still up for a fight against the military monster who is still with us are continuing to fight a rearguard action to keep what little is left of accomplishments and the spirit of those time alive.
Thinking back a bit to that time, Frank as the dope kicked in, a thousand things, or it seemed like a thousand things, some things new in the social, economic, political or cultural forest came popping up out of nowhere in many cases, came together in pretty rapid succession to draw down in flames the dread red scare Cold War freezes of their  childhoods (that time always absurdly symbolically topped off by the sight of elementary school kids, them , crouched under some rickety old desk arms over their heads some air-raid drill practice time as if, as the residents of Hiroshima and Nagasaki who are still alive from that time can attest to, that would do the slightest bit of good if the “big one,” the nuclear bombs hit.
Yeah, the Cold War time too when what did they know except to keep their obedient heads down under their desks or face down on the floor when the periodic air-raid shelter tests were performed at school to see if they were ready to face the bleak future if they survived some ill-meant commie atomic blast. (Personally Frank remembered telling somebody then that he would, having seen newsreel footage of the bomb tests at Bikini, just as soon take his  chances above desk, thank you, for all the good the other maneuver would do them.)
For a while anyway Frank and the angel-saints were able to beat back that Cold War mentality, that cold-hearted angst, and calculated playing with the good green world, the world even if they had no say, zero, in creating what went on. Not so strangely, although maybe that is why people drifted away in droves once the old bourgeois order reasserted itself and pulled down the hammer, none of those who were caught up in the whirl thought it would be for only a while or at least thought it would fade so fast just as they thought, young and healthy as they were, that they would live forever. But if you, anybody when you really think about the matter, took a step back you could trace things a little, could make your own “live free” categories of the events that chipped away the ice of those dark nights.

Start in with the mid-1950s if you like, which is where Frank liked to start dating his own sense of the new breeze coming through although being a pre-teenager then he told Jack he would not have had sense enough to call it that, with the heat of the black struggle for some semblance of civil liberties down South in the fight for voter rights and the famous desegregation of buses in Montgomery and the painful desegregation of the schools in Little Rock (and some sense of greater  equality up North too as organizations like the NAACP and Urban League pushed an agenda for better education and housing). Also at that same time, and in gathering anecdotal evidence Frank had found that these too are a common lynchpin, the first break-out of music with the crowning of rock and roll as the wave of the future (black rhythm and blues, scat, rockabilly music all mixed up and all stirred up), and the “discovery” of teen alienation and angst exemplified by sullen movie star  James Dean, who lived fast, and died fast a metaphor that would work its way through youth culture over the next generation. (And throw in surly “wild one” movie star Marlon Brando in The Wild One and a brooding Montgomery Cliff in almost anything during those days, take The Misfits for one, to the mix of what they could relate to as icons of alienation and angst .)   
An odd-ball mix right there. Throw in, as well, although this was only at the end and only in very commercial form, the influence of the “beats,” the guys (and very few gals since that Jack Kerouac-Neal Cassady-William Burroughs-Allen Ginsberg mix was strictly a male bonding thing) who listened to the guys who blew the cool be-bop jazz and wrote up a storm based on that sound, declared a new sound, that you would hear around cafés even if you did not understand it unlike rock and roll, the guys who hitchhiked across the American landscape creating a wanderlust in all who had heard about their exploits, and, of course, the bingo bongo poetry that threw the old modernists like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound out with a bang.
Then start to throw in the struggles against the old authority in places like Frisco town where they practically ran the red-baiters in the HUAC out of town (what Frank, and some of his friends although not the Carver corner boys except Markin, would learn to call “bourgeois authority working hand in hand with the capitalists”), the old certitudes that had calmed their parents’ lives, made them reach out with both hands for the plenty in the “golden age of plenty.”
Of course the biggest event that opened the doors for liberals, radicals, hell, even thoughtful conservatives was the sweet breeze coming down the road from Boston with the election of Jack Kennedy. Ike, the harmless uncle, the kindly grandfather, was for parents Frank wanted guys who set the buzz going, let them think about getting some kicks out of life, that maybe with some thought they would survive, and if they didn’t at least we had the kicks.

That event opened up a new psyche, that it was okay to question authority, whatever the limitations and shortness of the Camelot times with the struggles against some hoary things like segregation, the death penalty, nuclear proliferation, the unevenness of social life which would get propelled later in the decade with fight for women’s liberation, gay liberation, and the fight against the draft, the damn war in Vietnam that drove a nail into the heart of Frank’s generation. A river of ideas, and a river of tears, have been, and can be, shed over that damn war, what it did to young people, those who fought, maybe especially those who fought as Frank got older and heard more stories about the guys who like him didn’t make it back to the “real” world after “Nam, didn’t have a sweet mother Quaker lady like Frank to save them, those guys you see downtown in front of the VA hospitals, and those who refused to, that lingers on behind the scenes even today.
There were more things, things like the “Pill” (and Frank would always kid Jack who was pretty shy talking about sex despite the fact that he and Chrissie, his high school sweetheart, had had four kids when he asked what pill if you need to know what pill and its purpose where have you been) that opened up a whole can of worms about what everyone was incessantly curious about and hormonally interested in doing something about, sex, sex beyond the missionary position of timeless legends, something very different if the dramatic increase in sales of the Kama Sutra meant anything, a newer sensibility in music with the arrival of the protest folk songs for a new generation which pushed the struggle and the organizing forward.
Cultural things too like the experimenting with about seven different kinds of dope previously the hidden preserve of “cool cat” blacks and white hipsters (stuff that they only knew negatively about, about staying away from, thru reefer madness propaganda, thru the banning of some drugs that were previously legal like sweet sister cocaine and taunt Nelson Algren hard life down at the base of society in films like The Man With The Golden Arm), the outbreak of name changes with everybody seemingly trying to reinvent themselves in name (Frank’s moniker at one time was Be-Bop Benny draw what you will out of that the idea being like among some hipster blacks, although with less reason, they wanted to get rid of their  slave names)  fashion (the old college plaid look fading in the face of World War II army surplus, feverish colors, and consciously mismatched outfits and affectation (“cool, man, cool” and “right on’ said it all). More social experiments gathering in the “nation” through rock concerts, now acid-etched, new living arrangements with the arrival of the urban and rural communes (including sleeping on more than one floor in more than one church or mission when on the road, or later on the bum). They all, if not all widespread, and not all successful as new lifestyles all got a fair workout during this period as well.     

Plenty of Frank’s kindred in retrospective would weigh the various combinations of events differently in figuring out how the uprising started just as plenty of them had their specific dates for when the tide began to ebb, when the mean-spirited and authoritarian began their successful counter-offensive that they still lived with for not taking the omens more seriously. (Frank’s ebb tide, as he had  described to Frankie Riley one time, was the events around May Day 1971 when they seriously tried, or thought they were seriously trying, to shut down the government in D.C. if it would no shut down the war and got nothing but billy-clubs, tear gas, beatings and mass arrests for their efforts. After those days Frank, and others, figured out the other side was more serious about preserving the old order than they were about creating the new and that they had better rethink how to slay the monster they were up against and act accordingly.)

Then Frank passed Jack a photograph that he had taken from a calendar put out by the New England Folk Song Society that his wife, Sarah, who worked to put the item out to raise funds for folk music preservation (see above) that acted as another catalyst for this his short screed, and which pictorially encapsulated a lot of what went then, a lot about “which side were you on” when the deal went down. This photograph Frank pointed out to Jack was almost impossible to imagine without some combination of that hell broth anti-war, anti-establishment, pro-“newer world” mix stirred up in the 1960s.
Three self-assured women (the “girls” of photograph a telltale sign of what society, even hip, progressive society thought about women in those slightly pre-women’s liberation time but they would learn the difference) comfortable with the loose and individualistic fashion statements of the day from floppy hats to granny dresses to bare legs, bare legs, Jesus, that alone would have shocked their girdled, silk stocking mothers, especially if those bare legs included wearing a mini-skirt (and mother dread thoughts about whether daughter knew about the pill, and heaven forbid if she was sexually active, a subject not for polite society, not for mother-daughter conversation, then she damn better well know, or else).
They are also uncomfortable about the damn Vietnam war, no, outraged is a better way to put the matter, that was eating up boyfriends, brothers, just friends, guys they knew in college or on the street who were facing heavy decisions about the draft, Canada exile, prison or succumbing to the worst choice, Frank’s choice if you could call his induction a choice what else could he have done gone to Canada, no,  military induction, at a heavy rate and they unlike their mothers who came through World War II waiting patiently and patriotically for their military heroes to come home, come home in one piece, have a very different sense of the heroic. A sense of the heroic going back to ancient times, Greek times anyway, when one group of women like their stay-at-home-waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop World War II mothers demanded that their men come home carried on their shields if they had to rather than speak of defeat. Others, the ones that count here, refusing their potential soldier boys any favors, read sexual favors, okay, if they went off to war, providing a distant echo, a foundation to make their request stand on some authority, for these three women pictured there.
Frank wondered how many guys would confess to the lure of that enticement if they had refused induction. His own wife, quickly married at the time was if anything more gung-ho about stopping the red menace than his parents. Frank did not refuse induction for a whole bunch of reasons but then he did not have any girlfriends like that sweet mother Quaker woman later, who made that demand, his girl- friends early on, and not just his wife if anyway were as likely to want him to come back carried on a shield as those warrior-proud ancient Greek women. Too bad. But Frank said to Jack as Jack got up ready to head home to Hingham and Chrissie that he liked to think that today they could expect more women to be like the sisters above. Yeah, more, many more of the latter, please as Frank and his comrades in Veterans for Peace continue to struggle against the night-takers in the nightmare world of endless war.

Black Is Black And That’s A Fact -For Black History Month-Artists’ Corner-Kerry James Marshall

Black Is Black And That’s A Fact -For Black History Month-Artists’ Corner-Kerry James Marshall  




If you want to see some of the most arresting (and beautiful) images of blacks in the American diaspora check out the retrospective of the very much alive artist Kerry James Marshall in March (until July ) at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles. The exhibit had also at the Metropolitan Museum Of Art and the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art in its tour around the country. If you cannot attend that forthcoming exhibit please read Darryl Pinckney’s article in the New York Review of Books, January 19, 2017, The Genius Of Blackness.