Thursday, April 18, 2019

From The Archives-On Karl Marx, Abraham Lincoln and the American Civil War

Click on title to link to a discussion about the relationship between Abraham Lincoln, Karl Marx and the early Marxist movement that hailed Lincoln's leadership of the 'Second American Revolution'.

February Is Black History Month

Markin comment:

I wish to highlight the following paragraph from the "Workers Vanguard" reply to Joel in the linked article above:

"Joel asserts that the period of the Civil War—including Marx’s support to Lincoln—“is actually a time when the concept of a ‘two stage revolution’ makes sense, even though the term was not used at that time.” However, this poses the question in an ahistorical manner. Marx was not working within the framework of “two stage revolution.” To the contrary, for Marx, the Civil War was not the first stage of a revolution whose sequel would bring the working class to power but the culmination of the bourgeois revolution. The dogma of “two stage revolution,” as originally developed for tsarist Russia, held that because Russia was a backward country that had not yet undergone a bourgeois-democratic revolution, a bourgeois republic was necessary to achieve modernization and prepare the proletariat for taking power. But by the time the two-stage conception appeared on the scene, capitalism was no longer capable of playing a historically progressive role."

Every radical, every revolutionary, hell, every serious liberal should think long and hard about this paragraph. The progressive days of the capitalist system are over, long over. Every attempt, including many in the old days by this writer, to deny that reality and try to forge a strategic alliance (as opposed to an occasional episodic united front on a specific issue) with even ONE representative of that class today, in 2009, is political folly, or worst. And that is true even if that ONE representative is the high-flying Barack Obama whom many are still giving a political 'free ride' despite his much demonstrated undying devotion to the preservation of the American empire and the international capitalist system.

Artist's Corner- In Honor Of The Union Side In The American Civil War- Winslow Homer's "Home Sweet Home"

Click on the headlin to link to a site that contains a picture of Winslow Homer's Home Sweet Home.

Markin comment:

There is work Union-saving, anti-slavery work to be done but still, as every soldier knows, the sound of home sounds very good at any time. In honor of the Union side on the 150th anniversary of the beginning of the American Civil War.

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Lost In The Rain On Desolation Row -With Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited In Mind

Lost In The Rain On Desolation Row -With Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited In Mind





By Jack Callahan

“I’ve met Einstein disguised as Robin Hood, I’ve been in the tower with Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot, “ declared Robert South to no one in particular although Jake Devine was the only one in the room at the time. With those words Jake, Jake known as Jake since childhood to distinguish him from John Devine, Senior although his father a genial Irishman addicted to sports betting and drinking whiskey not always in that order was more the “slap on the back Jake type” while Jake in the throes of his high hippie moments was trying to shed that moniker for the cooler one of Be-Bop Benny but old habits die hard and his old high school friends called him Jake when he went on the hitchhike road west with them in 1965,1966 the name stuck whether he liked it or not knew a couple of things about Robert’s condition with that outburst. [This whole moniker business, Robert’s was Prince Love for a while before he settled on Hash Man,  awaits its sociological doctoral thesis since almost everybody had a sea-change name change moniker as if that mere fact would wash away a whole childhood of learned behaviors far removed from the idea of seeking a newer world away.]

Jake knew that Robert was two things-one, high as a kite on either speed or LSD the latter just then the drug of choice among the “hip” (not always the same as “hippie” but Jake did not want to argue the fine points on that one just then since he himself had been on a two day speed high-low) on the mind-expanding conscious West Coast cohort of the brethren and two, Robert had been listening to the whole, all eleven plus minutes including harmonica breaks,  of Bob Dylan’s Desolation Row at least once, probably more than once if he was high since he would not have had the stamina to switch the sound system that Captain Crunch had installed in their “digs” now that they were off the road for the winter and settled into Pablo ’s mansion. This Pablo was a friend of the Captain’s (not his real name obviously but a moniker like everybody then trying to reinvent themselves that he picked up along the way on the Pacific Coast Highway from some stoned chic when he picked up all and sundry in his yellow brick road bus and did his version of Ken Kesey’s merry prankster gig. Kesey a guy whom the Captain also knew and whom Jake and Robert had met when the bus swung through Kesey’s La Honda encampment on the way south). His mansion was purchased courtesy of many profitable drug deals in the south some of which the Captain had underwritten and hence the use of the mansion for the winter.     

By the way in compensation  for being called Jake by one and all on the bus, of which more in a minute, Jake had gathered some sense of respect because his latest flame, a serious “hippie chick” met on the road at Big Sur as they were heading south, Frilly Jilly, called him Be-Bop Benny,  called him a few other things once they high on grass, you know marijuana,  got down to the “do the do,” a term the guys still carried with them from the corner boy days in Riverdale after they had heard the bluesman Howlin’ Wolf do a song with those words in it, those words meaning hitting the sheets, having sex. What Frilly called him in her high hormonal moments under the sheets is best left to them.              

Yeah, Jake, Robert, Jimmy Jenkins, Frank Riley, and a guy whom they had met and taken as kindred from a mill town in Maine, Josh Breslin (who wound up taking the Prince Love moniker when Robert abandoned the title and it fit him better since he was the best-looking guy on the bus and a magnet for young women who wanted to “do the do” on that assumption),  on Russian Hill in San Francisco where they were camped out in a small park when he stopped by the bus and asked for a joint had been on quite a ride since coming West to see what it was all about and were learning quickly it was all about “drugs, sex and rock and roll” at its core but also about getting out from under the old ways of thinking and living. So when they hit Frisco they headed like lemmings to the sea to Golden Gate Park where all the hell was breaking loose met a few guys who “turned them on,” got them invited to a few parties, including one Captain Crunch was throwing around the new yellow brick road bus that he had just purchased (allegedly in a trade for a big sack of dope but all the time they were on the bus they never had that rumor confirmed by the Captain or anybody else and mainly it didn’t matter by then).

This bus was nothing but an old school bus that had been turned into a moving commune after the seats had been torn out, mattresses thrown down, a storage area for family living material like utensils, dishes, and pots and pans, the thing had been repainted in every Day-Glo psychedelic color under the sun and best of all hooked up with a great sound system Dippy Mike, the guy who did the sound system for Fillmore West and the Dead, put together for any trips they would take.

And almost from the start at Golden Gate Park the trips began once Captain had selected the Riverdale boys as part of his crew to head south with him. The reason for that heading south, the reason Robert was holding forth those lines from Desolation Row was to “house-sit” there in La Jolla at this mansion that belonged to Pablo Rios, a friend of the Captain’s and a serious south of the border drug dealer who was in Mexico for the winter and the Captain had agreed to doing the sitting as we got into “winter quarters.” Now that the bus was not being used, was being refitted with a new engine and so not useable, the sound system had been transferred to the house for the weekly parties the Captain threw for his friends (and whoever happened to hear about the event and knew where to find the place, not as easy as it sounds when stoned as it was located in a hideaway between the cliffs in La Jolla.                     

Robert, once settled in, once he got his own room with his lady-friend, Lavender Minnie, got heavily into the dope, got heavily into listening to the amped up music and Jake thought he had begun, like they had all heard about with kids who did too much dope, to go over the edge.      
Just as Jake thought that thought Robert ragged out again with “they’re selling postcards of the hanging, they’re painting the passports brown,” and Jake knew that Robert had gone for the next eleven plus minutes to his own world. Eleven plus minutes if he was lucky, since more than once Robert had decided that he needed to give his own take on what the whole thing meant, what the various references meant to him. For example that business with Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot, the two self-imposed exile poets who almost single-handedly broke from the old forms and created modern poetry and were treated like gods among the hip at one point was Dylan throwing out the gauntlet, telling those guys a new sheriff was in town. Well, maybe, if you think Dylan was a lyric poet rather than a song-writer, or maybe put the two together.

For example Robert explained that postcards of the hanging stuff was his, Dylan’s political moment like Billie Holiday had had with Strange Fruit about the scandalous open lynching of black men in the South put together with a new sense of masculinity turned in on itself with sailor boys caught out on the seven seas who transformed themselves into boy-girls with those all male crews. Once they hit port they hit the beauty parlors to freshen up their looks for the boys, the tough Jean Genet our Lady of the Flowers rough trade boys now that they had the taste for the seamy side, for the anal treats (truth be known not all the seven sea boy-girls once they hit the docks looked for rough trade or even ordinary faggots, a term of the time among Riverdale corner boys and not only corner boys, just like guys getting out of prison went back to their hetero dreams and left the permanents to the truly deprived girly boys, this in a time when all homosexual behavior was below the radar so who knows all Jake knew when Robert laid out his thoughts such talk about homos, faggots, guys light on their feet by old corner boys was usually derogatory and faggot was one of the kinder terms back then).       
Jake had made his fatal mistake by reminding Robert of the old days and of taking what Robert had to say as good coin rather than the ravings of a drug-addled junkie and so he now knew he would have to listen as Robert went through the whole litany. (Oh, don’t forget that Jake, pretty boy Jake now being called more frequently Be-Bop Benny and whatever Frilly Jilly called him behind closed doors when they made loud love was also high on some mescaline so fair game). Robert continued with his “deconstruction” before deconstruction was in fashion, literary or literal, about that blind commissioner who somebody had put LSD, acid in his whiskey glass and were leading him by the nose while he was playing with himself in public. Robert truly believed that this was the ultimate political strategy to bring in the new society that they all thought they were creating on the road in places like the Pacific Coast Highway.

What Dylan was saying was an early version of “drop out and drop acid,” get away from the nine to five life but do it quietly, don’t confront the bastards directly because they have all the guns and they will, they absolutely will, unleash those weapons once the gentle folk get righteously angry. So Robert was living that life, was a fugitive from bourgeois society which they more and more called the square life they had run away from and sit back and watch the action with his Lavender Minnie (and would do so for a while although not with Lavender Minnie who went back to Vassar to be Sarah Stein, graduate student in sociology, but with Red Rose, a girl who had dropped out of college to seek a newer world, she was under the influence of Robert Kennedy via Alfred Lord Tennyson just then).               
Robert, hell, Jake and all the other corner boys, maybe everybody except Captain Crunch and Ken Kesey were knee deep in the myths of their incomplete childhoods. Dylan probably too and so it was necessary to break with the illusions, forget Prince Charming, forget looking for midnight fled slippers, forget sleeping beauties live for black beauties, fuck little bitch red riding hood, kiss off Hansel and Gretel, blow off most of Western literature starting with the cause of more baloney and bullshit than one could reasonably understand, yeah, blow off Shakespeare and his rusty dime store nostrums and two bit philosophy, dig Buddha or Hari Krishna or Saint William Blake but lay off those heavy subtle literature messages. Let the bears eat their fucking porridge, let Cinderella end up an old charwoman, let snow white land inside her dreams with some sweet sister rolling a dollar bill off some mirrored image up her nose. Let the dead bury the dead. For a change.              

All is illusion, all is gypsy ladies selling plastic encrusted roses on drought ridden streets to harmless schoolboys and their bitch goddess dates. Ride the Ferris wheel baby and take a chance that you won’t come down in one piece, walk the midway and seek the geeks of truth hiding out from the law in Madame LaRue’s all-comers tent once that trip, that one way trip out of the garden [here Robert was thinking of the Garden of Eden, about getting  kicked out for good all for some unknown, maybe unknowable, reason just because Ma had bitten the apple of freedom, had taken the serpent for a ride and lost-the first adultery and you wonder, remember Jake how we wondered in Sunday school class with Sister Mary Kenny about why they got thrown out for one simple transgression and how later when we knew more about sex and sexual relations that Ma was just taking seed nothing more nothing less in case Pa was sterile. Remember too we laughed when the sons, the first sons went at each other tooth and nail that was to end in gunplay, something like that, what got killed anyway, who killed which brother and why didn’t that old man God give a goddam and save the situation instead of letting things get out of hand. Ironic ain’t it.]        
Jake had to laugh at the next part since this required some minimal idea about English literature of which Robert was woefully and studiously ignorant since he had barely slipped by and only be the good graces of Frankie Riley who whatever his shortcomings as a stand-up guy when things got heated on the midnight creep had done Robert’s senior paper for him and squeezed him by tassel and all.

Think about that stuff we all were hoodwinked on about Ophelia, you know Hamlet’s chick and how she was giving up the ghost (committing suicide) not because of some lost love but because she was pregnant, even then they had ways of figuring that out hard fact by using some wild herb according to what Lavender Minnie said she had heard some professor postulate on in her Freshman English class in college, and was not sure who the father was.  She, Orphelia, had been, let’s face it, as young as she was Fontinblas’ whore and who knows who else and if you thing about how depressed that Hamlet dude was she was probably just puckering his seed anyway, wasting his manliness. You have to laugh about that iron vest, what did they call them chastity belts that all they did was make the locksmiths rich on both ends, locking them on some squire’s orders and unlocking them when milady was left alone for more than three days. Hell that little whore(Ophelia okay) had duplicates made and was giving them out like candy to every half-ass princeling in Denmark who had a codpiece that looked promising and maybe that was what it was like in that troubled tower. That Shakespeare was way too polite to tell the real story and let that asshole Hamlet grab the big lines and big story like we were supposed to bleed all over the place for a guy who couldn’t decide whether to have veal or chicken for supper. No wonder she gave up the ghost and every guy with a key to the kingdom was crying for weeks after she went to ground.        

I already told you about Einstein and his buddy Robin Hood splitting a tab of acid and creating atomic flowers out of rainbows made big bangs in the silent night and the heathens paid the price and thereafter bowed down so courteously every time some big bass drum went off in the Elysian Fields of dawn. What you didn’t know or I didn’t mention before is that Robin Hood was punking for the old man, was giving him his pleasure if that is what you want to call the madness. Learned the arts from a guy named Friar Tuck out in Hard Rock Candy Mountain along with some, servile sisters hiding in a convent which every Thursday night featured a bawdy strip show for the boys out in the woods adjoining the mountain. Yeah, that acid trip business would do old Albert in once Tim Leary got him over into that midnight Harvard University lab with the shrouded windows and the screams written off to the coyotes of the moon. And you laughed at me and Ophelia when we went our separate ways. The laugh was on you brother, the last laugh.

You ain’t heard nothing yet though because there was this dude that put Einstein, T.S. Eliot and that crypto-Nazi Pound into the deep shade, put them on cheap street remember we used to say that all the time when we were nothing but from cheap street ourselves with our Woolworth trinket dreams and our outsized appetites for everything that we could not have except maybe a trip around the world with Emma when she learned the fine arts although I don’t think she learned her trade from that Friar Tuck who hung tough around that candy cane mountain. What we didn’t know, couldn’t figure was why she was so passive when she showed her wares, didn’t know that she was seeping dope when that was nothing but a nasty habit and sent people to Lexington, places like that to dry out when all she wanted was to be able to feel, feel something, something beside her bread crumb sins. Still passive or not she gave a boost when it was needed and remember it was from her we learned what it was all about when somebody said she was going to play the flute, yeah, play the flute.      

Hell I am seeing ghosts, ghosts of Christmas pass if you let me focus on the scene with that little bastard, Tiny Tim, you know the crippled boy who broke everybody’s heart and got more graft than anybody living and he was a bastard make no mistake, since no way he looked like Bob Crackpot but more like Eddy Sneeze or whatever that hard-ass boss’s name was and he had been tipping the old lady, Bob’s old lady, all along and Tiny Tim’s older sister too just to get his way with skinny worn out factory girls who were looking to go off the clock. If that is what you like that is what you like, right Lavender Minnie. [Minnie nods her assent too fucking stoned to do more than lift her head just then.] Maybe they liked old geezers, maybe they liked the street outside their factory doors leading straight without detour to the desolate night, to the row if you really want to know what we really are looking for in those sunless nights when the stars seemed to have abandoned the heavens and words, man-invented silly words are not enough, don’t have enough energy to blow out a candle much less a starless night. If only they wouldn’t grab all the light, let the skinny girls fatten up on protein and sexual desire then we would not have to worry about strong-armed guys hitting on Lavender Minnie or Frilly Jilly and having to defend our turf when all we want to do is seek out some, what did that dandy Fitzgerald call it way back when-something like the fresh green breast of the new world an unspoiled world a world that had existed for eons without words or strong-armed guys hitting on taken womenfolk.

[Now Robert was definitely coming down from the high of his high as he attempts to wax poetic and philosophical and it will be easier to understand where he is going with all of this word play unless he takes another tab of benzene which is what we are reduced to until the Captain comes back with a fistful of drugs he has about six million connection to working the whole scene like some market owner.]     

Hey you know as well as I do that you, me, Frankie, Jack, Lavender, Frilly and a million other kids are trying to get out from under that nine to the five rattrap our parents were crazy to have us invest in, hustle us off to the white picket fence noise without a squawk, going like sheep to the slaughter. We put the brakes on that, everybody except old Bart Webber who just wanted to taste the fresh life for a couple of minutes before running as fast as he could to his Betsy Binstock and start paying life insurance, health insurance, mortgage insurance and whatever else the “man” had to entice him with a security blanket wrap. Funny those ten percent guys couldn’t light a candle to that brother who got me out a few scrapes when the deal when down or to Betsy either but played on that stuff, maybe genetic going back to the Stone Age when they first started hustling insurance against the dinosaurs and meteor showers. Yeah those guys, I guess women too, just can’t wait to have the big brother blanket put over the whole fucking world and make us like it too. Make us get down on our knees and thanks the mother-fuckers, make us like we don’t know from nothing just because our parents coming through the war got all ass-tight about having everybody do their vanilla routine. No thank you. [Apparently Robert got hold of some kind of interim dope because he was getting edgy, out on edge city a place he liked to be when he was in his Desolation Row high dungeon.]    

You know if I thought it would make a rat’s ass difference I would go on and on about how that pompous ass Eliot and that Nazi-boot licker Pound twisted up the language and good. Made us figure out that modern man, maybe women too, were spending their time counting coffee spoons when the ship was leaving the dock, turned what did we call it “stup” and “sim” when the deal went down and they had a chance to prison breakout except Eliot wanted to be the Queen and Pound wanted to do some shit with cantos and other Latin delights that we gave up on when we were altar boys and saw Father Lally sucking up the church wine before preaching to the brethren and before giving everybody some stale daily bread at the altar rail. Made us like it too according to my grandmother who wouldn’t brook anything said against the man, a man of the clothe like Eliot wanted to be if he could not be the stately queen of England and Pound trying on his very first pair of high heels Jesus this dope is getting to me and Lavender Minnie is starting to look at me like I just blew in from Frisco or outer space. Let’s never fight okay Min.
Hell I’m getting tired now, tired of the bullshit it took for me to get out here, tired unto death of the crap I took all those years from my mother who was always harping on something like I was some professor who was holed up with a book and could write letters to the four corners of the earth when all I wanted to do, all I ever wanted to do was blow some smoke, do dope until my brain got good and fried and figure out what my take was on Dylan’s lyrics and head out alone to the back alleys of Desolation Row, our home. Fuck it.        


*"We Are Coming Father Abraham"- A Song Of The American Civil War

*"We Are Coming Father Abraham"- A Song Of The American Civil War




On the anniversary of the start of the American Civil War.

An example of an American Civil War song that I gleaned from reading the book, Civil War Curiosities" by Webb Garrison.

In the event, although the United States Congress authorized and budgeted for those 300,000 soldiers, I do not believe that the quota was met.


WE ARE COMING, FATHER ABRAHAM
Words by James Sloan Gibbons
Music L.O. Emerson


We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more,
From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore.
We leave our plows and workshops, our wives and children dear,
With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear.
We dare not look behind us but steadfastly before.
We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more!

CHORUS: We are coming, we are coming our Union to restore,
We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more!

If you look across the hilltops that meet the northern sky,
Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;
And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,
And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride;
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour,
We are coming, father Abr'am, three hundred thousand more!

CHORUS

If you look up all our valleys where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;
And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds ,
And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs;
And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door,
We are coming, Father Abr'am, three hundred thousand more!

CHORUS

You have called us, and we're coming by Richmond's bloody tide,
To lay us down for freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside;
Or from foul treason's savage group, to wrench the murderous blade;
And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.
Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before,
We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more!

CHORUS

"REDS"-The Movie-"Radical Chic"-The John Reed-Louise Bryant Romance

"REDS"-The Movie-"Radical Chic"-The John Reed-Louise Bryant Romance




DVD REVIEW


REDS, THE 25TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION (ORIGINALLY RELEASED IN 1981)

The important contribution of John Reed to the revolutionary movement here in America before World War I and later during the Russian revolution and its aftermath has never been fully appreciated. Thus, Warren Beatty, whatever his personal motives, has done a great service in filming the life of this “traitor to his class” (and his Harvard Class of 1910) and partisan of the international working class.

As usual with such commercial enterprises the order of things gets switched in the wrong direction. The love affair between Reed (played by Beatty) and budding writer and early feminist Louise Bryant (played by Diane Keaton)(and a little third party intervention by playwright Eugene O’Neill, played by Jack Nicholson) is set against the backdrop of the Russian Revolution not the other way around, but such is cinematic license. More than most film depictions this one mainly gets the story straight; Reed's early free-lance journalism tied to the Mexican Revolution; the bohemian life of pre-World War I Greenwich Village in New York City including it patronage by socialites like Mabel Dodge; the socialist fight against American participation in World War I; the fight among socialists (and anarchists) over support to the Russian Revolution; and, an interesting segment on the seemingly bewildering in-fighting in the early communist movement between the foreign-language federations and the Reed-led “Natives” (which included James P. Cannon,later a founder of American Trotskyism)that that ultimately had to be 'resolved' at Communist International headquarters in Moscow.

Those ‘natives’, the likes of Earl Browder, James Cannon and William Z. Foster, in the course of events would form the leadership of the party through most of the twenties when the cadre still wanted to make a revolution here and not just cheer on the Russian Revolution from afar. A nice touch in the film is the interweaving of commentaries by those, friend and foe, who knew or knew of Reed or were around during this time. See this movie.

THE GERMAN REVOLUTION OF 1923

THE GERMAN REVOLUTION OF 1923




COMMENTARY

A proper perspective on the question of the failed German revolutionary socialist opportunities starting in 1918 after the debacle of German defeat in World War I, the overthrow of the Kaiser and the establishment of a democratic republic until 1923 with the failure of the revolutionary opportunities resulting from the French reparations crisis is the subject of on-going controversy among revolutionaries. At that time most European revolutionaries, especially the Russians, placed their strategic aspirations on the success of those efforts in Germany. A different outcome during that period, with the establishment of a German Workers Republic, would have changed the course of world history in many ways, not the least of which would have been the probable saving of the isolated Russian socialist revolution and defeating German fascism in the embryo.

Since then, beginning with the Trotsky-led Russian Left Opposition in 1923 and later the International Left Opposition, revolutionaries as well as others have cut their teeth on developing an analysis of the failure of revolutionary leadership as a primary cause for that aborted German revolution. Against that well-known analysis, more recently a whole cottage industry has developed, particularly around the British journal Revolutionary History, giving encouragement to latter day hand wringing about the prospects (or lack of prospects) for revolution at that time and drawing the lesson that a revolution in Germany then could not have happened.

To buttress that argument the writings on the prospects of the 1923 revolution by August Thalheimer, a central theoretician and key adviser to German Communist Party leader Brandler in this period, have been warmly resurrected and particularly boosted. This kind of analysis, however, gets revolutionaries nowhere. It is one thing for those on the ground at the time in Germany and in the Comintern to miss the obvious signals for revolution it is another for later ‘revolutionaries’ to provide retrospective political cover for those who refused to see and act on the revolutionary opportunities at the time. The events surrounding the failed German revolution were also echoed in what was called the ‘literary debate’ inside the Russian Communist Party in 1924 at a time when the internal struggle, after the death of Lenin, was getting to a white heat. While at this historical distance it is probably impossible to argue all of the specifics of the revolutionary crisis of 1923 some lessons stick out.

A quick sketch of events beginning from the start of World War I with the famous treachery of the German Social Democratic leadership in voting for the Kaiser’s war budget (and continuing to vote for it) are in some ways decisive for what happened in 1923. Later, facing the consequences of the defeat of the German army, war exhaustion and the possibility of harsh reprisals from the Allied forces the Kaiser’s government was overthrown shortly after the armistice was signed and the fight was on in earnest for the future of Germany. That question as least temporarily, however, was not decided until the German working class had been subdued and or brought off with a bourgeois democratic republic, the notorious Weimar Republic. Unlike the earlier Russian experience in 1917 no independent mobilization of the working class through Soviets or other pan-working class organizations was fought for to the end. And that is the rub. This is the start of the problem. No Bolshevik-type organization was present to take advantage of the revolutionary situation. What is worst, the forces that did exist led by the heroic martyrs Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht were defeated and they personally were tragically and ominously murdered. Thus, a known and tested leadership was an essential missing ingredient that was to have consequences all the way through to 1923.

When a German Bolshevik-type organization finally was formed it contained many elements that were subjectively revolutionary but political naïve or disoriented, and suffered from anarchistic excesses in reaction to the stifling Social Democratic atmosphere of the pre-war period. While a party needs those subjectively elements to make the revolution, and this writer would argue that it cannot be made without them, this confusion gave the Social Democratic party plenty of ammunition for its reformist, parliamentary position. The key result of this lack of organization and proper preparededness was the so-called March Action of 1921. Unlike the overwhelming reaction of the German working class to the attempted Kopp Putsch of the previous year this was an action that went off half–cocked and did much to discredit communists in the eyes of the working class. The sorry results of this action had reverberations all the way up to the Communist International where Lenin and Trotsky were forced to defend the action in public, expel the former German party leader Paul Levi for a breech of discipline for his open criticism of the action (while it was going on) but also point out that it was the wrong way to go. In any case one cannot understand what happened (or did not happen) in 1923 without acknowledging the gun shyness of the Communist party leadership caused by the 1921 events.

So what is the specific argument of 1923 all about? Was there or was there not a realistic revolutionary opportunity to fight for a Soviet Germany which would have gone a long way to saving the Russian Revolution? On the face of it this question is a no-brainer. Of course there was a revolutionary situation. If the disruptions caused by the French take-over in the Ruhr in order to obtain their war reparations and the resultant passive resistance policy of the German government and the later inflationary spiral that affected many layers of German society was not a classic revolutionary situation then there are none this side of heaven. End of story.

The real question that underlines any argument against a revolutionary crisis is what to do (other than stick your head in the sand). This is where the previous “ultra" policies of the German Communist Party came into play. The party remained passive at a time when it was necessary for action. The leadership, including our above-mentioned friend Thalheimer, acted as if a revolutionary crisis would last for a prolonged period and that they had all the time in the world. They caught Zinoviev's disease (named for the Bolshevik leader who always seemed instinctively to go passive when it was necessary for action, and visa versa). Moreover, most critically they did not take advantage of the decline in the authority of the Social Democratic Party in order to win over the mass of the rank and file Soical Democrats that were leaving it in droves. That is where the preceding events described above come into play. The destruction of the authoritative leadership of Luxemburg and Liebknecht left a lesser layer of cadre not known for pursuing an aggressive strategy when called for. It is hard to believe that Luxemburg and Liebknecht would have responded in the same way as the Brandler/Thalheimer leadership. I would argue, if anything, Liebknecht would have had to be restrained a little. This is, in the final analysis, the decisive problem of the failure of the German Revolution in 1923. Nobody can predict whether a revolutionary crisis will lead to revolutionary success but one must certainly know when to move as the Bolsheviks did.

And what of the other reasons given for holding back. The fascists were a menace but hardly more than that. Damn, if they were really as much of a menace as right-wing social democrats and communists have portrayed the situation in 1923 what the hell were the fascists in say 1930, when they had 100,000 well-organized and fighting mad storm troopers in the streets. With that view the only rational policy for Communist would have been to make sure the German working class had its passports in order. As we tragically know there are never enough passports. And what of the German Army and outside capitalist military intervention? The army was not that big even though augmented by ‘unofficial’ paramilitary forces. It definitely would have been harder to split these forces along class lines. But workers militias would have at least been able to hold the line. And do not forget the more than willing Red Army was within a few days march to assist. As the Bolshevik Revolution and the ensuing Civil demonstrated in the final analysis a revolution is victorious or defeated despite the influence of whatever foreign forces are scheming against the regime.

And what about the internal capitalist opposition? And what about the stabilization of the economic situation? One can go on forever with the problems and talk oneself out of any action. While all these factors individually might argue against a revolutionary crisis in 1923 jointly they create the notion that this was a big revolutionary opportunity lost. That should make one suspicious, very suspicious, of the credentials of those ‘revolutionaries’ who argue that one did not exist. Read more on this subject.I know I will.

The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheCommunistInternational-LessonsForToday- The Russian Revolution and Black Liberation

The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheBolshevik-LedOctoberRevolution-LessonsForToday- The Russian Revolution and Black Liberation   

The full text below the quote 



Workers Vanguard No. 1105
10 February 2017

TROTSKY

LENIN
The Russian Revolution and Black Liberation
(Quote of the Week)
The Bolshevik Revolution of 1917 gave a powerful impetus to the struggle for black freedom. Lenin and Trotsky’s Third (Communist) International fought to make American Communists understand the centrality of the fight against black oppression to socialist revolution in the U.S. Jamaican-born poet Claude McKay, who was a fraternal delegate to the Communist International’s 1922 Fourth Congress in Moscow, underlined the significance of the Bolshevik Revolution for American blacks in an essay published by the NAACP’s magazine The Crisis.
When the Russian workers overturned their infamous government in 1917, one of the first acts of the new Premier, Lenin, was a proclamation greeting all the oppressed peoples throughout the world, exhorting them to organize and unite against the common international oppressor—Private Capitalism. Later on in Moscow, Lenin himself grappled with the question of the American Negroes and spoke on the subject before the Second Congress of the Third International. He consulted with John Reed, the American journalist, and dwelt on the urgent necessity of propaganda and organizational work among the Negroes of the South. The subject was not allowed to drop. When Sen Katayama of Japan, the veteran revolutionist, went from the United States to Russia in 1921 he placed the American Negro problem first upon his full agenda. And ever since he has been working unceasingly and unselfishly to promote the cause of the exploited American Negro among the Soviet councils of Russia.
With the mammoth country securely under their control, and despite the great energy and thought that are being poured into the revival of the national industry, the vanguard of the Russian workers and the national minorities, now set free from imperial oppression, are thinking seriously about the fate of the oppressed classes, the suppressed national and racial minorities in the rest of Europe, Asia, Africa and America. They feel themselves kin in spirit to these people. They want to help make them free.
—Claude McKay, “Soviet Russia and the Negro” (The Crisis, Vol. 27, No. 2, December 1923)

"Soviet Russia and the Negro"-- An Essay by Claude McKay

Claude McKay
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The label of propaganda will be affixed to what I say here. I shall not mind; propaganda has now come into its respectable rights and I am proud of being a propagandist. The difference between propaganda and art was impressed on my boyhood mind by a literary mentor, Milton's poetry and his political prose set side by side as the supreme examples. So too, my teacher,--splendid and broadminded though he was, yet unconsciously biased against what he felt was propaganda--thought that that gilt-washed artificiality, "The Picture of Dorian Gray", would outlive "Arms and the Man" and "John Bull's Other Island". But inevitably as I grew older I had perforce to revise and change my mind about propaganda. I lighted on one of Milton's greatest sonnets that was pure propaganda and a widening horizon revealed that some of the finest spirits of modern literature-- Voltaire, Hugo, Heine, Swift, Shelly, Byron, Tolstoy, Ibsen--had carried the taint of propaganda. The broader view did not merely include propaganda literature in my literary outlook; it also swung me away from the childish age of the enjoyment of creative work for pleasurable curiosity to another extreme where I have always sought for the motivating force or propaganda intent that underlies all literature of interest. My birthright, and the historical background of the race that gave it to me, made me very respectful and receptive of propaganda and world events since the year 1914 have proved that it is no mean science of convincing information.

American Negroes are not as yet deeply permeated with the mass movement spirit and so fail to realize the importance of organized propaganda. It was Marcus Garvey's greatest contribution to the Negro movement; his pioneer work in that field is a feat that the men of broader understanding and sounder ideas who will follow him must continue. It was not until I first came to Europe in 1919 that I came to a full realization and understanding of the effectiveness of the insidious propaganda in general that is maintained against the Negro race. And it was not by the occasional affront of the minority of civilized fiends--mainly those Europeans who had been abroad, engaged in the business of robbing colored peoples in their native land--that I gained my knowledge, but rather through the questions about the Negro that were put to me by genuinely sympathetic and cultured persons.

The average Europeans who read the newspapers, the popular books and journals, and go to see the average play and a Mary Pickford movie, are very dense about the problem of the Negro; and they are the most important section of the general public that the Negro propagandists would reach. For them the tragedy of the American Negro ended with "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and Emancipation. And since then they have been aware only of the comedy--the Negro minstrel and vaudevillian, the boxer, the black mammy and butler of the cinematograph, the caricatures of the romances and the lynched savage who has violated a beautiful white girl.

A very few ask if Booker T. Washington is doing well or if the "Black Star Line" is running; perhaps some one less discreet than sagacious will wonder how colored men can hanker so much after white women in face of the lynching penalty. Misinformation, indifference and levity sum up the attitude of western Europe towards the Negro. There is the superior but very fractional intellectual minority that knows better, but whose influence on public opinion is infinitesimal, and so it may be comparatively easy for white American propagandists--whose interests behoove them to misrepresent the Negro--to turn the general indifference into hostile antagonism if American Negroes who have the intellectual guardianship of racial interests do not organize effectively, and on a world scale, to combat their white exploiters and traducers.

The world war has fundamentally altered the status of Negroes in Europe. It brought thousands of them from America and the British and French colonies to participate in the struggle against the Central Powers. Since then serious clashes have come about in England between the blacks that later settled down in the seaport towns and the natives. France has brought in her black troops to do police duty in the occupied districts in Germany. The color of these troops, and their customs too, are different and strange and the nature of their work would naturally make their presence irritating and unbearable to the inhabitants whose previous knowledge of Negroes has been based, perhaps, on their prowess as cannibals. And besides, the presence of these troops provides rare food for the chauvinists of a once proud and overbearing race, now beaten down and drinking the dirtiest dregs of humiliation under the bayonets of the victor.

However splendid the gesture of Republican France towards colored people, her use of black troops in Germany to further her imperial purpose should meet with nothing less than condemnation from the advanced section of Negroes. The propaganda that Negroes need to put over in Germany is not black troops with bayonets in that unhappy country. As conscript-slave soldiers of Imperial France they can in no wise help the movement of Negroes nor gain the sympathy of the broad-visioned international white groups whose international opponents are also the intransigent enemies of Negro progress. In considering the situation of the black troops in Germany, intelligent Negroes should compare it with that of the white troops in India, San Domingo and Haiti. What might not the Haitian propagandists have done with the marines if they had been black instead of white Americans! The world upheaval having brought the three greatest European nations--England, France and Germany--into closer relationship with Negroes, colored Americans should seize the opportunity to promote finer inter-racial understanding. As white Americans in Europe are taking advantage of the situation to intensify their propaganda against the blacks, so must Negroes meet that with a strong counter-movement. Negroes should realize that the supremacy of American capital today proportionately increases American influence in the politics and social life of the world. Every American official abroad, every smug tourist, is a protagonist of dollar culture and a propagandist against the Negro. Besides brandishing the Rooseveltian stick in the face of the lesser new world natives, America holds an economic club over the heads of all the great European nations, excepting Russia, and so those bold individuals in Western Europe who formerly sneered at dollar culture may yet find it necessary and worth while to be discreetly silent. As American influence increases in the world, and especially in Europe, through the extension of American capital, the more necessaryit becomes for all struggling minorities of the United States to organize extensively for the world wide propagation of their grievances. Such propaganda efforts, besides strengthening the cause at home, will certainly enlist the sympathy and help of those foreign groups that are carrying on a life and death struggle to escape the octuple arms of American business interests.

And the Negro, as the most suppressed and persecuted minority, should use this period of ferment in international affairs to lift his cause out of his national obscurity and force it forward as a prime international issue.

Though Western Europe can be reported as being quite ignorant and apathetic of the Negro in world affairs, there is one great nation with an arm in Europe that is thinking intelligently on the Negro as it does about all international problems. When the Russian workers overturned their infamous government in 1917, one of the first acts of the new Premier, Lenin, was a proclamation greeting all the oppressed peoples throughout the world, exhorting them to organize and unite against the common international oppressor--Private Capitalism. Later on in Moscow, Lenin himself grappled with the question of the American Negroes and spoke on the subject before the Second Congress of the Third International. He consulted with John Reed, the American journalist, and dwelt on the urgent necessity of propaganda and organizational work among the Negroes of the South. The subject was not allowed to drop. When Sen Katayama of Japan, the veteran revolutionist, went from the United States to Russia in 1921 he placed the American Negro problem first upon his full agenda. And ever since he has been working unceasingly and unselfishly to promote the cause of the exploited American Negro among the Soviet councils of Russia.

With the mammoth country securely under their control, and despite the great energy and thought that are being poured into the revival of the national industry, the vanguard of the Russian workers and the national minorities, now set free from imperial oppression, are thinking seriously about the fate of the oppressed classes, the suppressed national and racial minorities in the rest of Europe, Asia, Africa and America. They feel themselves kin in spirit to these people. They want to help make them free. And not the least of the oppressed that fill the thoughts of the new Russia are the Negroes of America and Africa. If we look back two decades to recall how the Czarist persecution of the Russian Jews agitated Democratic America, we will get some idea of the mind of Liberated Russia towards the Negroes of America. The Russian people are reading the terrible history of their own recent past in the tragic position of the American Negro to-day. Indeed, the Southern States can well serve the purpose of showing what has happened in Russia. For if the exploited poor whites of the South could ever transform themselves into making common cause with the persecuted and plundered Negroes, overcome the oppressive oligarchy--the political crackers and robber landlords--and deprive it of all political privileges, the situation would be very similar to that of Soviet Russia to-day.

In Moscow I met an old Jewish revolutionist who had done time in Siberia, now young again and filled with the spirit of the triumphant Revolution. We talked about American affairs and touched naturally on the subject of the Negro. I told him of the difficulties of the problem, that the best of the liberal white elements were also working for a better status for the Negro, and he remarked: "When the democratic bourgeoisie of the United States were execrating Czardom for the Jewish pogroms they were meting out to your people a treatment more savage and barbarous than the Jews ever experienced in the old Russia. America", he said religiously, "had to make some sort of expiatory gesture for her sins. There is no surfeited bourgeoisie here in Russia to make a hobby of ugly social problems, but the Russian workers, who have won through the ordeal of persecution and revolution, extend the hand of international brotherhood to all the suppressed Negro millions of America".
I met with this spirit of sympathetic appreciation and response prevailing in all circles in Moscow and Petrograd. I never guessed what was awaiting me in Russia. I had left America in September of 1922 determined to get there, to see into the new revolutionary life of the people and report on it. I was not a little dismayed when, congenitally averse to notoriety as I am, I found that on stepping upon Russian soil I forthwith became a notorious character. And strangely enough there was nothing unpleasant about my being swept into the surge of revolutionary Russia. For better or for worse every person in Russia is vitally affected by the revolution. No one but a soulless body can live there without being stirred to the depths by it.

I reached Russia in November--the month of the Fourth Congress of the Communist International and the Fifth Anniversary of the Russian Revolution. The whole revolutionary nation was mobilized to honor the occasion, Petrograd was magnificent in red flags and streamers. Red flags fluttered against the snow from all the great granite buildings. Railroad trains, street cars, factories, stores, hotels, schools--all wore decorations. It was a festive month of celebration in which I, as a member of the Negro race, was a very active participant. I was received as though the people had been apprised of, and were prepared for, my coming. When Max Eastman and I tried to bore our way through the dense crowds, that jammed the Tverskaya Street in Moscow on the 7th of November, I was caught, tossed up into the air, and passed along by dozens of stalwart youths.

"How warmly excited they get over a strange face!" said Eastman. A young Russian Communist remarked: "But where is the difference? Some of the Indians are as dark as you." To which another replied: "The lines of the face are different. The Indians have been with us long. And so people instinctively see the difference." And so always the conversation revolved around me until my face flamed. The Moscow press printed long articles about the Negroes in America, a poet was inspired to rhyme about the Africans looking to Socialist Russia and soon I was in demand everywhere--at the lectures of poets and journalists, the meetings of soldiers and factory workers. Slowly I began losing self-consciousness with the realization that I was welcomed thus as a symbol, as a member of the great American Negro group--kin to the unhappy black slaves of European Imperialism in Africa--that the workers in Soviet Russia, rejoicing in their freedom, were greeting through me.
Russia, in broad terms, is a country where all the races of Europe and of Asia meet and mix. The fact is that under the repressive power of the Czarist bureaucracy the different races preserved a degree of kindly tolerance towards each other. The fierce racial hatreds that time in the Balkans never existed in Russia. Where in the South no Negro might approach a "cracker" as a man for friendly offices, a Jewish pilgrim in old Russia could find rest and sustenance in the home of an orthodox peasant. It is a problem to define the Russian type by features. The Hindu, the Mongolian, the Persian, the Arab, the West European--all these types may be traced woven into the distinctive polyglot population of Moscow. And so, to the Russian, I was merely another type, but stranger, with which they were not yet familiar. They were curious with me, all and sundry, young and old, in a friendly, refreshing manner. Their curiosity had none of the intolerable impertinence and often downright affront that any very dark colored man, be he Negro, Indian or Arab, would experience in Germany and England.

In 1920, while I was trying to get out a volume of my poems in London, I had a visit with Bernard Shaw who remarked that it must be tragic for a sensitive Negro to be an artist. Shaw was right. Some of the English reviews of my book touched the very bottom of journalistic muck. The English reviewer outdid his American cousin (except the South, of course, which could not surprise any white person much less a black) in sprinkling criticism with racial prejudice. The sedate, copperhead "Spectator" as much as said: no "cultured" white man could read a Negro's poetry without prejudice, that instinctively he must search for that "something" that must make him antagonistic to it. But fortunately Mr. McKay did not offend our susceptibilities! The English people from the lowest to the highest, cannot think of a black man as being anything but an entertainer, boxer, a Baptist preacher or a menial. The Germans are just a little worse. Any healthy looking black coon of an adventurous streak can have a wonderful time palming himself off as another Siki or a buck dancer. When an American writer introduced me as a poet to a very cultured German, a lover of all the arts, he could not believe it, and I don't think he does yet. An American student tells his middle class landlady that he is having a black friend to lunch: "But are you sure that he is not a cannibal?" she asks without a flicker of a humorous smile!

But in Petrograd and Moscow, I could not detect a trace of this ignorant snobbishness among the educated classes, and the attitude of the common workers, the soldiers and sailors was still more remarkable. It was so beautifully naive; for them I was only a black member of the world of humanity. It may be urged that the fine feelings of the Russians towards a Negro was the effect of Bolshevist pressure and propaganda. The fact is that I spent most of my leisure time in non-partisan and antibolshevist circles. In Moscow I found the Luxe Hotel where I put up extremely depressing, the dining room was anathema to me and I grew tired to death of meeting the proletarian ambassadors from foreign lands some of whom bore themselves as if they were the holy messengers of Jesus, Prince of Heaven, instead of working class representatives. And so I spent many of my free evenings at the Domino Café, a notorious den of the dilettante poets and writers. There came the young anarchists and menshevists and all the young aspirant fry to read and discuss their poetry and prose. Sometimes a group of the older men came too. One evening I noticed Pilnyal the novelist, Okonoff the critic, Feodor the translator of Poe, an editor, a theatre manager and their young disciples, beer-drinking through a very interesting literary discussion. There was always music, good folk-singing and bad fiddling, the place was more like a second rate cabaret than a poets' club, but nevertheless much to be enjoyed, with amiable chats and light banter through which the evening wore pleasantly away. This was the meeting place of the frivolous set with whom I eased my mind after writing all day.

The evenings of the proletarian poets held in the Arbot were much more serious affairs. The leadership was communist, the audience working class and attentive like diligent, elementary school children. To these meetings also came some of the keener intellects from the Domino Café. One of these young women told me that she wanted to keep in touch with all the phases of the new culture. In Petrograd the meetings of the intelligentzia seemed more formal and inclusive. There were such notable men there as Chukovsky the critic, Eugene Zamiatan the celebrated novelist and Maishack the poet and translator of Kipling. The artist and theatre world were also represented. There was no communist spirit in evidence at these intelligentzia gatherings. Frankly there was an undercurrent of hostility to the bolshevists. But I was invited to speak and read my poems whenever I appeared at any of them and treated with every courtesy and consideration as a writer. Among those sophisticated and cultured Russians, many of them speaking from two to four languages, there was no overdoing of the correct thing, no vulgar wonderment and bounderish superiority over a Negro's being a poet. I was a poet, that was all, and their keen questions showed that they were much more interested in the technique of my poetry, my views on and my position regarding the modern literary movements than in the difference of my color. Although I will not presume that there was no attraction at all in that little difference!

On my last visit to Petrograd I stayed in the Palace of the Grand Duke Vladimir Alexander, the brother of Czar Nicholas the Second. His old, kindly steward who looked after my comfort wanders round like a ghost through the great rooms. The house is now the headquarters of the Petrograd intellectuals. A fine painting of the Duke stands curtained in the dining room. I was told that he was liberal minded, a patron of the arts, and much liked by the Russian intelligentzia. The atmosphere of the house was theoretically non-political, but I quickly scented a strong hostility to bolshevist authority. But even here I had only pleasant encounters and illuminating conversations with the inmates and visitors, who freely expressed their views against the Soviet Government, although they knew me to be very sympathetic to it.

During the first days of my visit I felt that the great demonstration of friendliness was somehow 
expressive of the enthusiastic spirit of the glad anniversary days, that after the month was ended I could calmly settle down to finish the book about the American Negro that the State Publishing Department of Moscow had commissioned me to write, and in the meantime quietly go about making interesting contacts. But my days in Russia were a progression of affectionate enthusiasm of the peopl  towards me. Among the factory workers, the red-starred and chevroned soldiers and sailors, the proletarian students and children, I could not get off as lightly as I did with the intelligentsia. At every meeting I was received with boisterous acclaim, mobbed with friendly demonstration. The women workers of the great bank in Moscow insisted on hearing about the working conditions of the colored women of America and after a brief outline I was asked the most exacting questions concerning the positions that were most available to colored women, their wages and general relationship with the white women workers. The details I could not give; but when I got through, the Russian women passed a resolution sending greetings to the colored women workers of America, exhorting them to organize their forces and send a woman representative to Russia. I received a similar message from the Propaganda Department of the Petrograd Soviet which is managed by Nicoleva, a very energetic woman. There I was shown the new status of the Russian women gained through the revolution of 1917. Capable women can fit themselves for any position; equal pay with men for equal work; full pay during the period of pregnancy and no work for the mother two months before and two months after the confinement. Getting a divorce is comparatively easy and not influenced by money power, detective chicanery and wire pulling. A special department looks into the problems of joint personal property and the guardianship and support of the children. There is no penalty for legal abortion and no legal stigma of illegitimacy attaching to children born out of wedlock.

There were no problems of the submerged lower classes and the suppressed national minorities of the old Russia that could not bear comparison with the grievous position of the millions of Negroes in the United States to-day. Just as Negroes are barred from the American Navy and the higher ranks of the Army, so were the Jews and the sons of the peasantry and proletariat discriminated against in the Russian Empire. It is needless repetition of the obvious to say that Soviet Russia does not tolerate such discriminations, for the actual government of the country is now in the hands of the combined national minorities, the peasantry and the proletarian By the permission of Leon Trotsky, Commissar-in-chief of the military and naval forces of Soviet Russia, I visited the highest military schools in the Kremlin and environs of Moscow. And there I saw the new material, the sons of the working people in training as cadets by the old officers of the upper classes. For two weeks I was a guest of the Red navy in Petrograd with the same eager proletarian youth of new Russia, who conducted me through the intricate machinery of submarines, took me over aeroplanes captured from the British during the counter-revolutionary war around Petrograd and showed me the making of a warship ready for action. And even of greater interest was the life of the men and the officers, the simplified discipline that was strictly enforced, the food that was served for each and all alike, the extra political educational classes and the extreme tactfulness and elasticity of the political commissars, all communists, who act as advisers and arbitrators between the men and students and the officers. Twice or thrice I was given some of the kasha which is sometimes served with the meals. In Moscow I grew to like this food very much, but it was always difficult to get. I had always imagined that it was quite unwholesome and unpalatable and eaten by the Russian peasant only on account of extreme poverty. But on the contrary I found it very rare and sustaining when cooked right with a bit of meat and served with butter--a grain food very much like the common but very delicious West Indian rice-and-peas.

The red cadets are seen in the best light at their gymnasium exercises and at the political assemblies when discipline is set aside. Especially at the latter where a visitor feels that he is in the midst of early revolutionary days, so hortatory the speeches, so intense the enthusiasm of the men. At all these meetings I had to speak and the students asked me general questions about the Negro in the American Army and Navy, and when I gave them common information known to all American Negroes, students, officers and commissars were unanimous in wishing this group of young American Negroes would take up training to become officers in Army and Navy of Soviet Russia. The proletarian students of Moscow were eager to learn of the life and work of Negro students. They sent messages of encouragement and good will to the Negro students of America and, with a fine gesture of fellowship, elected the Negro delegation of the American Communist Party and myself to honorary membership in the Moscow Soviet.

Those Russian days remain the most memorable of my life. The intellectual Communists and the intelligentsia were interested to know that America had produced a formidable body of Negro intelligensia and professionals, possessing a distinctive literature and cultural and business interests alien to the white man's. And they think naturally, that the militant leaders of the intelligentsia must feel and express the spirit of revolt that is slumbering in the inarticulate Negro masses, precisely the emancipation movement of the Russian masses had passed through similar phases. Russia is prepared and waiting to receive couriers and heralds of good will and interracial understanding from the Negro race. Her demonstration of friendliness and equity for Negroes may not conduce to produce healthy relations between Soviet Russia and democratic America, the anthropologists 100 per cent pure white Americanism will soon invoke Science to prove that the Russians are not at all God's white people I even caught a little of American anti-Negro propaganda in Russia. A friend of mine, a member of the Moscow intelligentsia, repeated to me the remarks of the lady respondent of a Danish newspaper: that I should not be taken as a representative Negro for she had lived in America and found all Negroes lazy, bad and vicious, a terror to white women. In Petrograd I got a like story from Chukovsky, the critic, who was on intimate terms with a high worker of the American Relief Administration and his southern wife. Chukovsky is himself an intellectual "Westerner", the term applied to those Russians who put Western-European civilization before Russian culture and believe that Russia's salvation lies in becoming completely westernized. He had spent an impressionable part of his youth in London and adores all things English, and during the world war was very pro-English. For the American democracy, also, he expresses unfeigned admiration. He has more Anglo-American books than Russian in his fine library and considers the literary section of the New York Times a journal of a very high standard. He is really a maniac of Anglo-Saxon American culture. Chukovsky was quite incredulous when I gave him the facts of the Negro's status in American civilization.

"The Americans are a people of such great energy and ability," he said, "how could they act so petty towards a racial minority?" And then he related an experience of his in London that bore a strong smell of cracker breath. However, I record it here in the belief that it is authentic for Chukovsky is a man of integrity: About the beginning of the century, he was sent to England as correspondent of a newspaper in Odessa, but in London he was more given to poetic dreaming and studying English literature in the British museum and rarely sent any news home. So he lost his job and had to find cheap, furnished rooms. A few weeks later, after he had taken up his residence in new quarters, a black guest arrived, an American gentleman of the cloth. The preacher procured a room on the top floor and used the dining and sitting room with the other guests, among whom was a white American family. The latter protested the presence of the Negro in the house and especially in the guest room. The landlady was in a dilemma, she could not lose her American boarders and the clergyman's money was not to be despised. At last she compromised by getting the white Americans to agree to the Negro's staying without being allowed the privilege of the guest room, and Chukovsky was asked to tell the Negro the truth. Chukovsky strode upstairs to give the unpleasant facts to the preacher and to offer a little consolation, but the black man was not unduly offended:

"The white guests have the right to object to me," he explained, anticipating Garvey, "they belong to a superior race."

"But," said Chukovsky, "I do not object to you, I don't feel any difference; we don't understand color prejudice in Russia."

"Well," philosophized the preacher, "you are very kind, but taking the scriptures as authority, I don't consider the Russians to be white people."
From Crisis 27 (December 1923, January 1942): 61-65, 114-18



In Boston (Everywhere)-Build (and Nourish) The Resistance!-Introducing The Organization Food For Activists

In Boston (Everywhere)-Build (and Nourish) The Resistance!-Introducing The Organization Food For Activists 









    

In Honor Of Russian Revolutionary Vladimir Lenin’s Birthday (April 1870-January 1924)-The Struggle Continues-Ivan Smilga’s Political Journey-Take One

In Honor Of Russian Revolutionary Vladimir Lenin’s Birthday (April 1870-January 1924)-The Struggle Continues-Ivan Smilga’s Political Journey-Take One     




From The Pen Of Frank Jackman 



For a number of years I have been honoring various revolutionary forbears, including the subject of this birthday tribute, the Russian Bolshevik leader Vladimir Lenin architect (along with fellow revolutionary Leon Trotsky) of the October Revolution in Russia in 1917 in each January under the headline-Honor The Three L’s –Lenin, Luxemburg , Liebknecht. My purpose then was (and still is) to continue the traditions established by the Communist International in the early post-World War I period in honoring revolutionary forbears. That month has special significance since every January  

Leftists honor those three leading revolutionaries who died in that month, V.I. Lenin of Russia in his sleep after a long illness in 1924, and Karl Liebknecht of Germany and Rosa Luxemburg of Poland in 1919 murdered in separate incidents after leading the defeated Spartacist uprising in Berlin.



I have made my political points about the heroic Karl Liebknecht and his parliamentary fight against the German war budget in World War I in which he eventually wound up in prison only to be released when the Kaiser abdicated (correctly went to jail when it came down to it once the government pulled the hammer down on his opposition), on some previous occasions. The key point to be taken away today, still applicable today as in America we are in the age of endless war, endless war appropriations and seemingly endless desires to racket up another war out of whole cloth every change some ill-begotten administration decides it needs to “show the colors”, one hundred years later in that still lonely and frustrating struggle to get politicians to oppose war budgets, to risk prison to choke off the flow of war materials.  



I have also made some special point in previous years about the life of Rosa Luxemburg, the “rose of the revolution.” About her always opposing the tendencies in her adopted party, the German Social-Democracy, toward reform and accommodation, her struggle to make her Polish party ready for revolutionary opportunities, her important contributions to Marxist theory and her willing to face and go to jail when she opposed the first World War.



This month, the month of his birth, it is appropriate, at a time when the young needs to find, and are in desperate need of a few good heroes, a few revolutionaries who contributed to both our theoretical understandings about the tasks of the international working class in the age of imperialism (the age, unfortunately, that we are still mired in) and to the importance of the organization question in the struggle for revolutionary power, to highlight the  struggles of Vladimir Lenin, the third L, in order to define himself politically.



Below is a first sketch written as part of a series posted over several days before Lenin’s birthday on the American Left History blog starting on April 16th of a young fictional labor militant, although not so fictional in the scheme of the revolutionary developments in the Russia of the Tsar toward the end of the 19th century and early 20th century which will help define the problems facing the working-class there then, and the ones that Lenin had to get a handle on.

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Ivan Smilga, “Big Ivan” to his friends, called so since childhood in the rural neighborhood, really a village, where he grew up, and rightly so since he was large, six feet six and two hundred and sixty pounds. So large by Russian hunger standards in the winter of 1893 when he had come out of the Ukrainian farmlands, come out of the miniature hamlet of Vresk, not many miles outside of Odessa to Moscow when he had heard that John Smythe and Sons, the big English textile firm had been given a license by the Tsar, by the Ministry of Commerce, to set up a factory in that city to produce cloth for the home market.

The farm life had been so barren, so desolate, so worked out by his father and really by the farmer who had worked the land before and moved east, east toward Siberia where the frontier now lie ahead, that Ivan had walked on foot or taken a sleigh ride most of the way that hard winter in order to as he said (roughly and politely translated from the Russian although the English is almost too gentile for a what a rough-hewn peasant boy not civilized by city ways and what Miss Primrose’s etiquette books would tolerate would thunder when riled) “get the stink of country life blown out of his nostrils.” He was not alone on that first day when the first Smythe plant went on line. Thousands of young farm boy Ivans (although perhaps none quite as large) were standing impatiently in line in front of the main office building for a chance at employment. And more than one farm boy was crestfallen to see that if he had to compete against thousands of Ivans there were that many more thousands of Ivanas, young farm girls, girls as always attracted to textile work in every budding capitalist country in order to get off their own desolate family farms and make their ways in the world before marriage. (Ivan would later find, find out among a lot of things that the idyll textile dewy-eyed factory girl of British and American legend was just that, a legend but that did not stop them or later generations from coming when they heard the spindles roaring). Although perhaps they would be too polite and pious to use the words that Ivan used to indicate his reasoning for getting off the land, and not look back.                

Fortunately Ivan, with his bulk and strength, was chosen very quickly by a savvy watchful Russian foreman who knew what he needed and it was staring him right in the eye, needed the strong back and mitt-like hands of a young man who could lift the rolls of fabric and balance then on his back as they came off the machines. And so Ivan started his new life, or part of his new life as a working-man, as a man of the city. For about a year things went well, although he worked many long sixteen hour days six days a week being young he was capable of doing the work. And loved to pocket his wages at the end of the week (extra wages, a few kopeks more, as it turned out later since that foreman had told the English superintendent that Ivan was something of a superman. Moreover he had the grudging respect of other men (and the eye of a few of the girl operators) so it was best to piece him off before he found out about trade unions and such. Nice maneuver, divide and conquer right on the factory floor). Being somewhat frugal (as he had been taught in the peasant manner) Ivan was able to save for his dream of owning a small shop, maybe a blacksmith’s shop, to service the needs of the fine horses that he saw daily on the streets of Moscow. Ivan also sent, as a dutiful son, kopeks home to his family to help tide them over as the grain harvest that year was sufficiently short to bring the threat of severe hunger, maybe famine it was not unheard of , back to the Smilga door once again.

In the spring of 1895 all that changed though. Ivan had worked his way up to head hauler, directing others to load and unload the rolls of fabric produced from the never-ending machines. He had a good reputation among his fellow workers, although not a few saw his dreams of a little shop as somewhat awry (but who would dare tell Ivan Smilga, even later the hardest toughest street Bolshevik from Georgia, he could not have his dream this side of paradise). Moreover he was a moderate drinker by Russian and Ukrainian standards, no more than a bottle at ta sitting, and so the young women of the factory floor would flirt, or at least cast an eye his way, especially Elena Kassova, who worked one of the machines which Ivan was in charge of keeping up to speed by rapidly get the rolls off the end of the line. Then one day James Smiley, the company owner’s son and manager of the plant announced to young Ivan Smilga that his services (and that of the crew who worked under him) were no longer necessary since the company had purchased a machine that would automatically take the rolls from the machine and place them on a wagon, a wagon so simple to operate that one of the girl machine-tenders could do it periodically as needed while still tending her machine.  

So there Ivan was, out in the cold, without a job, and with no particular prospects. Ivan stewed over his plight for about a week, maybe ten days, with solace only from uncharacteristic endless bottles of vodka. Then one night he rounded up his now unemployed work crew, a group of four young farm boys who like Ivan did not want to go home to that desolate farm land, and explained to them his plan to get his and their jobs back. Of course each crew member had also sought solace in the bottle and so collectively their minds may not have been quite as sharp as they should have been when Ivan unfolded his scheme. To hear Ivan tell the story the plan was simplicity itself. They would sneak into the factory on Saturday night when the machines were shut down and smash that hauling machine to smithereens. Then the Smileys, father and son, would have to hire them back, maybe give them higher wages to boot.


Needless to say greedy for work and plied with liquor the crew bought into the plan with every hand and foot. That very next Saturday night they pulled off the caper. Snuck into the factory undetected by a dozing night watchman to do their nefarious work (that night watchman, Orlov, would subsequently be fired for being drunk and asleep on the job and Ivan would not see him again until he saw him on the barricades in Moscow when the Bolsheviks were trying to subdue the local branch of the Provisional Government after November 1917). All day Sunday the working-class quarters of Moscow were abuzz with the news, spread by the night watchman Orlov who claimed he had been knocked out by whoever did the dastardly deed, that parties unknown had smashed the machinery. There were newspaper reports that the culprits would be momentarily apprehended. That the “Luddites” would be captured and dealt with summarily. (Nobody knew exactly what a Luddite was but they all knew it could not be good to be one, or, worse, accused of being one) Of course they never were. On the other hand come that Monday morning as Ivan and the crew waited around in front of the factory doors expecting to be re-hired coming up the road on a horse-drawn wooden flatbed carriage was an exact replica of the machinery destroyed the previous Saturday night.