Remember Attica Blood in the Water The Attica Prison Uprising of 1971 and Its Legacy by Heather Ann Thompson (Pantheon, 2016) A Review

Remember Attica Blood in the Water The Attica Prison Uprising of 1971 and Its Legacy by Heather Ann Thompson (Pantheon, 2016) A Review Workers Vanguard No. 1103	13 January 2017

Remember Attica

Blood in the Water

The Attica Prison Uprising of 1971 and Its Legacy

by Heather Ann Thompson

(Pantheon, 2016)

A Review

On the morning of 9 September 1971, nearly 1,300 inmates—predominantly black and Puerto Rican—took over the state prison at Attica, New York. Four days later 29 of them lay dead, cut down in a hail of bullets fired by New York State Police, sheriffs and corrections officers. Governor Nelson Rockefeller gave the order. President Richard Nixon cheered them on. In the aftermath, the surviving prisoners were subjected to hideous torture and later charged with a total of 1,300 crimes. Among these were kidnapping and, most obscenely, unlawful imprisonment based on taking prison guards hostage, ten of whom were gunned down by Rockefeller’s stormtroopers when they retook the prison.

For many years, Democratic and Republican administrations in Albany, along with the courts, have covered up much of the truth of what took place at Attica, assisted by the same capitalist press that peddled the lie that the prisoners shot the guards. A significant part of that shroud has been peeled back by Heather Ann Thompson in her recent book, Blood in the Water: The Attica Prison Uprising of 1971 and Its Legacy. Thompson’s book brings to life the dignity and humanity of the prisoners who were treated as little more than dirt by Rockefeller and his ilk. She describes in vivid detail the dehumanizing conditions that gave rise to the rebellion and the racist venom that ran from the governor’s mansion down to the cops and prison guards who hunted down the uprising’s leaders. Thompson got her own sampling of that venom for naming the prison guards who carried out assassinations and torture.

Thompson’s comprehensive history is a result of her many years of diligent archival research and a bit of good fortune in uncovering key sources that had been suppressed. As she notes, “The most important details of this story have been deliberately kept from the public. Literally thousands of boxes of documents relating to these events are sealed or next to impossible to access.” Regarding the most explosive documents she uncovered, Thompson says, “All of the Attica files that I saw in that dark room of the Erie County courthouse have now vanished.”

For millions around the world, Attica became a potent symbol of rebellion against brutal repression—and a stark emblem of racist state murder. To this day it continues to inspire struggles against the racist degradation of black people inside and outside of prison walls. The first issue of Workers Vanguard (October 1971) led with the headline “Massacre at Attica.” We stated bluntly: “The brutal, bloody murderers of Attica are none other than the ruling class of this society,” saying further:

“Rockefeller cut down the Attica prisoners in the manner of his father and grandfather before him—ruthlessly and to protect the system from which his profits spring. From the murder of the Ludlow miners to the present, this family has carried the policies of the armed fist over the entire globe.... The Rockefeller name and the Rockefeller practice symbolize, more than any other, the American capitalist class—a class that will stop at nothing to extend and protect its profitable holdings.”

Attica was an explosion waiting to happen. The 2,200 men warehoused in a facility built for 1,600 were routinely beaten by guards, locked in cells 16 hours a day, rationed one sheet of toilet paper daily, one bar of soap a month and one shower per week—even in the heat of summer. Among the main grievances was censorship of reading materials—no newspapers, very few books, and nothing at all to read in Spanish. It wasn’t an absolute ban—the prison authorities mocked the prisoners by supplying magazines such as Outdoor Life, Field and Stream, American Home and House Beautiful.

Hours after the revolt began, L.D. Barkley, a 21-year-old Black Panther Party member imprisoned for violating parole by driving without a license, read out the prisoners’ powerful declaration: “We are men! We are not beasts and we do not intend to be beaten or driven as such.”

The prisoners called for the minimum wage for prison work (they were paid slave wages of between 20 cents and one dollar per day), accompanied by an end to censorship and restrictions on political activity, religious freedom, rehabilitation, education and decent medical care. They expressed solidarity with the Vietnamese workers and peasants as well as others fighting U.S. imperialism. The main demand was amnesty for participating in the rebellion, along with “speedy and safe transportation out of confinement, to a Non-Imperialist country.” Most likely in mind were Cuba, where the capitalist rulers had been overthrown and a bureaucratically deformed workers state led by Fidel Castro established, or Algeria, a capitalist state governed by left nationalists that had given refuge to Black Panthers in exile.

As Thompson points out, many of the prisoners at Attica were veterans of eruptions over similar conditions at Manhattan’s Tombs detention center and the prison in Auburn, New York, the prior year. The bitter anger that was about to explode at Attica was displayed 19 days earlier when word spread through the cells that prison authorities at California’s San Quentin prison had assassinated Black Panther Party member George Jackson on 21 August 1971. The next day, over 800 Attica inmates marched silently into breakfast wearing black armbands and held a fast in protest. California prison officials had targeted Jackson, along with W.L. Nolen and Hugo Pinell, for forging solidarity of black, Latino and white prisoners. New York officials were no less alarmed by the interracial unity growing among Attica’s inmates.

The prison revolt reflected the growing ferment and struggles taking place outside prison walls, not least the “black power” movement and radical protests against the war in Vietnam. Many of the black inmates identified with the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense (BPP) and Puerto Ricans looked to the Young Lords, which was inspired by the Panthers. Playing a leading role in the rebellion was Sam Melville, a white member of the Weather Underground who was serving 18 years for placing explosives in government buildings in protest against the war in Vietnam. As Thompson observes, the presence of such activists “offered Attica’s otherwise apolitical men—like [Frank] Big Black Smith—a new understanding of their discontents and a new language for articulating them.” Smith ended up leading the prisoners’ security force, made up largely of Black Muslims. His group treated the prison guards taken hostage with a humanity that the prisoners had been denied.

For a long time before Blood in the Water, the biggest window into what took place at Attica came from Tom Wicker’s A Time to Die. Wicker, a New York Times reporter, along with radical attorney William Kunstler, was among the outside observers whom the prisoners demanded to negotiate through rather than directly with prison and state authorities. Prison officials granted this one demand, intending to use the observers to convince the prisoners to release the hostages and surrender without amnesty. To his credit, BPP leader Bobby Seale, whom the prisoners also sought as an observer, uniquely refused to be involved in attempts to nudge the inmates toward surrender. Seale made clear the BPP position that “all political prisoners who want to be released to go to non-imperialistic countries should be complied with.”

The retaking of Attica began in the morning of September 13 with a cloud of CN and CS gas dropped from a helicopter that covered every prisoner with a nauseating, incapacitating powder and it ended with a bloodbath. The rebellion’s leadership paid dearly. Barkley, Melville and others were assassinated in the prison yard. Surviving prisoners, including the wounded, were stripped naked, made to crawl through the mud and the blood, then lined up to run a gantlet over broken glass and be beaten by cops and guards wielding what they called their “n----r sticks.” After being threatened with castration, Big Black Smith was forced to lie on a table for five hours with a football tucked under his chin, under threat of being shot if it rolled loose.

For the capitalist ruling class, Attica had to be crushed with particular vengeance because the rebels had begun to see their struggle in political and even revolutionary terms. One of Thompson’s discoveries is Nixon’s celebration of the bloodbath: “I think this is going to have a hell of a salutary effect on future prison riots.... Just like Kent State had a hell of a salutary effect” (referring to the 4 May 1970 National Guard killing of four students protesting the invasion of Cambodia—an extension of U.S. imperialism’s dirty war against the heroic Vietnamese workers and peasants). Nixon added, “They can talk all they want about force, but that is the purpose of force.”

Attica Nation

Thompson, a historian at the University of Michigan and expert on mass incarceration, is particularly motivated by prison reform. She notes that the immediate aftermath of the Attica revolt saw some improvements in food, medical care, clothing, mail censorship and number of showers permitted. However, as she points out, this was followed by an “unprecedented backlash against all efforts to humanize prison conditions in America.”

Inmates today continue to be used as slave labor, face censorship of political literature and conditions at least as dehumanizing and sadistic, including the increasing use of solitary confinement—universally recognized as a form of torture. Brutality by prison guards is a daily fact of life, especially for the black and Latino victims disproportionately singled out for discipline.

The backlash to which Thompson refers is one expression of the bipartisan rollback of the limited democratic gains for black people attained by the liberal-led civil rights movement. Its most glaring manifestation for the past three decades has been the mass incarceration of black people, largely a consequence of the “war on drugs.” This overt war on black people was accompanied by escalating cop terror against the ghettos and barrios.

Today’s plethora of drug laws is an outgrowth of the state repression under the “war on crime” kicked off by Democratic president Lyndon Johnson’s 1968 “Safe Streets Act” and Nixon’s 1970 “Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act” and carried on by Democratic and Republican administrations since. The number of people languishing in U.S. prisons and jails, 2.2 million, is six times what it was in 1971. The costs of maintaining this vast prison complex have led to calls for easing up on the war on drugs.

Prisons are the concentrated expression of the depravity of this society. They are a key instrument in coercing, torturing and brutalizing those who have been cast off as the useless residue of a system rooted in exploitation and racial oppression. The deindustrialization of much of the U.S. that began in the late 1960s drove millions of black people out of the workforce and into the ranks of the permanently outcast. In the calculations of the American bourgeoisie, a substantial part of the black population, who used to provide labor for the auto plants and steel mills, is simply written off as an expendable population. Having condemned black as well as Latino youth to desperate poverty, the rulers whipped up hysteria painting the ghettoized poor as criminal “superpredators,” whom cops can gun down with impunity, and for whom no sentence is too long, no prison conditions too harsh. This demonization of the black population has served to deepen the wedge between white and black workers in a period of virtually no class struggle.

Marxists support the struggle for any demand that meets the immediate needs of prisoners. But under capitalism no reforms can fundamentally alter the repressive nature of the prisons. Along with the cops, military and courts, prisons are a pillar of the capitalist state, whose basic function is to maintain, through force or threat of force, the rule of the capitalist class and its economic exploitation of the working class. In the U.S., where racial oppression is at the core of the capitalist system, any alleviation of prison conditions must be linked to the fight against black oppression in general. We fight to abolish the prison system, which will be done only when the capitalist order—with its barbaric state institutions—is shattered by a proletarian socialist revolution that establishes a planned, collectivized economy with jobs and quality, integrated housing and education for all.

Thompson’s sympathies clearly lie with the Attica prisoners. Yet she evinces a soft spot for the prison guards, whom she sees as victims as well. Her poster boy for humanizing the guards is Mike Smith, a 22-year-old former machinist apparently liked by the prisoners and sympathetic to their demands. Smith, after being taken hostage by the prisoners, was shot by the cops and grievously wounded. Thompson writes, “Like so many other small town boys who had grown up in rural New York Mike needed to make a living, and prisons were the going industry.” Thompson also gives voice to the guards taken hostage and the families of the ten of them whom Rockefeller’s assassins gunned down, who resent the fact that the surviving Attica prisoners won a paltry monetary settlement from the state after nearly three decades.

As Bolshevik leader Leon Trotsky pointed out 85 years ago, the worker who becomes a policeman in the service of the capitalist state is a bourgeois cop, not a worker, an admonition no less applicable to prison guards. As we noted at the time of the Attica massacre, “These despicable racist guards are despised even by the ruling class that cynically uses them. The governor not only served notice on the prisoners that rebellion does not pay, and rebellion linked with revolutionary ideas means certain death, but he had a message for the guards too: Keep the upper hand or else!”

The basic function of the prisons is lost on the liberal academic Thompson, whose call for prison reform envisions a commonality of interests between inmates and prison guards—a relationship akin to that of slave and overseer. In a 2011 paper, “Rethinking Working-Class Struggle Through the Lens of the Carceral State: Toward a Labor History of Inmates and Guards,” she declares, “It is time once again for the American working class to pay attention to penal facilities as sites of productive labor and wage competition and to recognize that its destiny is tied in subtle but important ways to the ability of inmates as well as prison guards to demand fair pay and safe working conditions.” Thompson lauds the return of prison guards to municipal unions, such as the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees (AFSCME).

What, then, are “safe working conditions” for prison guards? In our 1971 article, we sharply criticized Jerry Wurf, the AFSCME president, as he threatened a “slowdown” by union guards after the Attica massacre:

“Wurf demanded more and better riot equipment—helmets, tear gas and masks, to be borrowed from police departments if necessary, and hiring of more guards. Yet he had the effrontery to maintain, ‘We’re not at war with the inmates; the state of New York is at war with them.’ What forces does the state of New York employ to make war on the inmates if not the cops and guards Wurf is happy to represent?... No union can represent both workers and the sworn servants of the capitalist class, the police and prison guards.”

The increasing prominence of cops and prison guards—workers’ class enemies—in the shrinking union movement underscores the need for ousting the pro-capitalist bureaucrats and forging a class-struggle leadership in the basic organs of workers struggle.

Three years before L.D. Barkley read out the Attica Brothers’ powerful declaration, striking black sanitation workers in Memphis, Tennessee, famously walked picket lines with signs declaring, “I am a man.” Today, the racist capitalist ruling class continues to treat black people as if they were less than human and their lives don’t matter. But there is a reservoir of social power in the organized working class, in which black workers, who make up the unions’ most loyal and militant sector, remain disproportionately represented. Under revolutionary leadership, black workers, who form an organic link to the anger of the oppressed ghetto poor, will play a vanguard role in the struggles of the entire U.S. working class. It is the purpose of the Spartacist League to build a workers party that links the fight for black freedom to the struggle for proletarian state power. Workers rule on a world scale will open the road to a communist future in which the modern instruments of incarceration and death will be discarded as relics of a decaying social order that deserved only to perish.

An Encore Salute To The Untold Stories Of The Working- Class 1960s Radicals-“The Sam And Ralph Stories”- The Angel Of Mercy-From The Sam Eaton-Ralph Morris Series-From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

An Encore Salute To The Untold Stories Of The Working- Class 1960s Radicals-“The Sam And Ralph Stories”- The Angel Of Mercy-From The Sam Eaton-Ralph Morris Series-From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

Allan Jackson, editor The Sam And Ralph Stories -New General Introduction

[As my replacement Greg Green, whom I brought in from American Film Gazette originally to handle the day to day site operations while I concentrated on editing but who led a successful revolt against my regime based on the wishes of the younger writers to as they said at the time not be slaves to the 1960s upheavals a time which they only knew second or third hand, mentioned in his general introduction above some of the series I initiated were/are worth an encore presentation. The Sam and Ralph Stories are one such series and as we go along I will try to describe why this series was an important testament to an unheralded segment of the mass movements of the 1960s-the radicalized white working- class kids who certainly made up a significant component of the Vietnam War soldiery, some of who were like Sam and Ralph forever after suspicious of every governmental war cry. Who also somewhat belatedly got caught up in the second wave rock and roll revival which emerged under the general slogan of “drug, sex and rock and roll” which represented a vast sea change for attitudes about a lot of things that under ordinary circumstances would have had them merely replicating their parents’ ethos and fate.        

As I said I will describe that transformation in future segment introductions but today since it is my “dime” I want to once again clear up some misapprehensions about what has gone on over the past year or so in the interest of informing the readership, as Greg Green has staked his standing at this publication on doing to insure his own survival, about what goes on behind the scenes in the publishing business. This would not have been necessary after the big flap when Greg tried an “end around” something that I and every other editor worth her or his salt have tried as well and have somebody else, here commentator and my old high school friend Frank Jackman, act as general introducer of The Roots Is The Toots  rock and roll coming of age series that I believe is one of the best productions I have ever worked on. That got writers, young and old, with me or against me, led by Sam Lowell, another of my old high school friends, who had been the decisive vote against me in the “vote of no confidence” which ended my regime up in arms. I have forgiven Sam, and others, as I knew full well from the time I entered into the business that at best it was a cutthroat survival of the fittest racket. (Not only have I forgiven Sam but I am in his corner in his recent struggles with young up and coming by-line writer Sarah Lemoyne who is being guided through the shoals by another old high school friend Seth Garth as she attempts to make her way up the film critic food chain, probably the most vicious segment of the business where a thousand knives wait the unwary from so-called fellow reviewers.) The upshot of that controversy was that Greg had to back off and let me finish the introducing the series for which after all I had been present at the creation.               

That would have been the end of it but once we successfully, and thankfully by Greg who gave me not only kudos around the water cooler but a nice honorarium, concluded that series encore in the early summer of 2018 he found another way to cut me. Going through the archives of this publication to try to stabilize the readership after doing some “holy goof” stuff like having serious writers, young and old, reviewing films based on comic book characters, the latest in video games and graphic novels with no success forgetting the cardinal rule of the post-Internet world that the younger set get their information from other sources than old line academic- driven websites and don’t read beyond their techie tools Greg found another series, the one highlighted here, that intrigued him for an encore presentation. This is where Greg proved only too human since he once again attempted an “end around,” by having Josh Breslin, another old friend whom I meet in the Summer of Love, 1967 out in San Francisco, introduce the series citing my unavailability as the reason although paying attention to the fact that I had sweated bullets over that one as well.      

This time though the Editorial Board, now headed by Sam Lowell, intervened even before Greg could approach Josh for the assignment. This Ed Board was instituted after my departure to insure the operation would not descend, Sam’s word actually, into the so-called autocratic one-person rule that had been the norm under my regime. They told Greg to call me back in on the encore project or to forget it. I would not have put up with such a suggestion from an overriding Ed Board and would have willingly bowed out if anybody had tried to undermine me that way. I can understand fully Greg’s desire to cast me to the deeps, have done with me as in my time I did as well knowing others in the food chain would see this as their opportunity to move up.  

That part I had no problem with, told Greg exactly that. What bothered me was the continuing “urban legend” about what I had done, where I had gone after that decisive vote of no confidence. Greg continued, may continue today, to fuel the rumors that not only after my initial demise but after finishing up the Roots Is The Toots series I had gone back out West to Utah of all places to work for the Mormons, or to Frisco to hook up with my old flame Madame La Rue running that high-end whorehouse I had staked her to in the old days, or was running around with another old high school pal, Miss Judy Garland, aka Timmy Riley the high priestess of the drag queen set out in that same town whom I also helped stake to  his high-end tourist attraction cabaret. All nonsense, I was working on my memoir up in Maine, up in Olde Saco where Josh grew up and which I fell in love with when he first showed me his hometown and its ocean views.          

If the reader can bear the weight of this final reckoning let me clear the air on all three subjects on the so-called Western trail. Before that though I admit, admit freely that despite all the money I have made, editing, doing a million pieces under various aliases and monikers, ballooning up 3000 word articles to 10,000 and having the publishers fully pay despite the need for editing for the latter in the days before the Guild when you worked by the word, accepting articles which I clearly knew were just ripped of the AP feed and sending them along as gold I had no dough, none when I was dethroned. Reason, perfectly sane reason, although maybe not, three ex-wives with alimony blues and a parcel of kids, a brood if you like who were in thrall to the college tuition vultures.

Tapped out in the East for a lot of reasons I did head west the first time looking for work. Landed in Utah when I ran out of dough, and did, DID, try to get a job on the Salt Lake Star and would have had it too except two things somebody there, some friend of Mitt Romney, heard I was looking for work and nixed the whole thing once they read the articles I had written mocking Mitt and his white underwear world as Massachusetts governor and 2012 presidential candidate. So it was with bitter irony when I heard that Greg had retailed the preposterous idea that I would now seek a job shilling for dear white undie Mitt as press agent in his run for the open Utah United States Senate seat. Here is where everybody should gasp though at the whole Utah fantasy-these Mormons stick close together, probably ingrained in them from Joseph Smith days, and don’t hire goddam atheists and radicals, don’t hire outside the religion if they can help it. You probably had to have slept with one of Joseph Smith’s or Brigham Young’s wives to even get one foot in the door. Done.              

The helping Madame La Rue, real name of no interest or need to mention,  running her high-end exclusive whorehouse out in Half Moon Bay at least had some credence since I had staked her to some dough to get started after the downfall of the 1960s sent her back to her real world, the world of a high class hooker who was slumming with “hippies” for a while when it looked like our dreams were going to be deterred in in the ebbtide. We had been hot and heavy lovers, although never married except on some hazed drug-fogged concert night when I think Josh Breslin “married” us and sent us on a “honeymoon” with a fistful of cocaine. Down on dough I hit her up for some which she gave gladly, said it was interest on the “loan: she never repaid and let me stay at her place for a while until I had to move on. Done

The whole drag queen idea tells me that whoever started this damn lie knew nothing about my growing up days and had either seen me in The Totem, Timmy Riley’s aka Miss Judy Garland’s drinking with a few drag queen who worked and drew the wrong conclusions or was out to slander and libel me for some other nefarious reason. See Miss Judy Garland is the very successful drag queen and gay man Timmy Riley from the old neighborhood who fled to Frisco when he could no longer hide his sexual identity and preferences. To our great shock since Timmy had been the out-front gay-basher of our crowd, our working-class corner boy gay-bashing crowd. I had lent, after getting religion rather late on the LGBTQ question, Timmy the money to buy his first drag queen cabaret on Bay Street and Timmy was kind enough to stake me to some money and a roof before I decided I had to head back East. Done.

But enough about me.  This is about two other working- class guys, Sam Eaton and Ralph Morris, met along life’s road one from Carver about fifty miles away from where Seth, Sam, Timmy and a bunch of other guys grew up and learned the “normal” working-class ethos-and broke, tentatively at times, from that same straitjacket and from Troy, New York. Funny Troy, Carver, North Adamsville, and Josh’s old mill town Olde Saco all down-in-the-mouth working class towns still produced in exceptional times a clot of guys who got caught up in the turmoil of their times-and lived to tell the tale. I am proud to introduce this encore presentation and will have plenty more to say about Sam and Ralph in future segments.]

***********

Allan Jackson Encore Introduction

Most of the stories about Sam and Ralph center on politics or their freaking army time in the fucking Vietnam War (sorry for the sensitive but that “fucking” is the only way I can describe the war, the war that bled a generation dry, bled plenty of working-class kids like me  dry as hell and we are still not right about what the hell it all meant even fifty years later-except we have been on an eternal tour of ‘getting on the good side of the angels” after all the hell we brought on people we had not quarrel with). This one is about personal relationships which if you knew these guys, if you knew me, if you knew Josh from working-class Olde Saco in Maine or my boys from the working-class Acre neighborhood of North Adamsville was, is a subject sealed with seven seals. Meaning about dealing with women which given our collective divorce cohort, which young Sarah Lemoyne commented on and not to our benefit, we still have never figured out, had no guidance worth a damn about. But enough of my rant because Sam and Ralph speak in a way for a whole misbegotten generation of 1960s coming of age kids and I can add nothing essential to what they have to say.    

The Angel Of Mercy-From The Sam Eaton-Ralph Morris Series 

From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

As long as Sam Eaton and Ralph Morris had known each other they never spent much time or effort discussing their various romantic interests. Never spoke of little rendezvous or trysts, never spoke of their two divorces much beyond recording the facts of the disengagements even though Sam had been Ralph’s best man at his first wedding to Clara, his high school sweetheart from Troy, New York whom he married after the dust of the 1960s settled down and people, “movement people” too were going back to some of the old norms. (Sam had been not designated as ‘best man” but rather “truest friend and witness” or something like that designation since they were beyond bourgeois martial norms at the time but we will use that former designation here to signify that they were close enough for Sam to gladly take on that task).

Maybe it was the Catholic reticence to speak of personal matters, personal sexual manners with another male (probably female too but let’s stick to male here) both having come up “old school” working-class Catholics when that meant something before Vatican II in the 1960s when the “s” word was not used in polite society, not used, God no, from the pulpit (even when discussion came up of the obligation to, unlike the bloody Protestants with their two point three children, of propagating the faith; having scads of children to bump up the Catholic population of the world).

Maybe closer to home it was the “theory,” probably honored more in the breech that the observance, of “not airing one’s dirty linen in public” drilled into them by their respective maternal grandmothers, especially when the “s” word was involved (certainly no parents gave the slightest clues probably assuming that the birds and the bees story line would suffice and both men learned like millions of their Generation of ’68 kindred about sex on the streets, most of it erroneous or damn right dangerous). 

Maybe it was the times they met in “the liberated 1960s” where the Pill (and having capitalized that word no one should have to ask what pill) had made the whole subject somewhat bland to discuss (as opposed to doing the act, or as an old friend of Sam’s, Bart Webber, used to say taking his cue from the old bluesman Howlin’ Wolf “doing the do”) and that extended to the individuals they were involved with either through those collective four marriages and divorces or other relationships. It was not, as both were at pains to declare when the subject came up one recent night which will be discussed more fully below, that they were not friendly with those respective spouses, or when the spouses left then the one-night stands, the flings, the affairs to use an old-fashioned word for it and the flame dreams but their thing had been heavily weighted toward the male bonding that drew them close together back in the early 1970s.

And maybe it was the way that they had “met,” a story that they have endlessly repeated in one form or another and which had been told so many times by Sam mostly in the old days in small alternative presses and magazines and more recently in 1960s-related blogs that even they confessed that everybody must be “bored” with the damn thing by now. So only the barest outline will suffice here since their meeting is not particularly relevant to the story except to help sort out this reticence about relationships business. Sam, an active opponent of the Vietnam War, and Ralph an ex-soldier of that war who had turned against the war after eighteen months of duty there and become an anti-war activist in his turn with Vietnam Veterans Against The War (VVAW) after being discharged from the Army “met” in RFK Stadium in Washington on May Day 1971 when they were down there with their respective groups trying to as the slogan went “shut down the government, if the government did not shut down the war.”

For their ill-advised efforts they and thousands of others were tear-gassed, billy-clubbed and sent to the bastinado (ill-advised in that they did not have nearly enough people on hand and were incredibly naïve about the ability of the government to do any dirty deed to keep their power including herding masses of protestors into closed holding areas to be forgotten if possible although Ralph always had a sneaking suspicion the government would not have been unhappy seeing those bodies floating face down in the Potomac). Sam and Ralph met on the floor of the stadium and since they had several days to get acquainted were drawn to each other by working-class background, their budding politics, and their desire to “seek a newer world” as some old English poet once said. And so they stuck together, stuck politically mostly, through various peace organizations and ad hoc anti-war committees fighting the good fight along with dwindling numbers of fellow activists for the past forty plus years.                              

There were thick and thin times as Ralph stayed close to home in Troy, New York working in his father’s high-skilled electrical shop which he eventually took over and had just recently passed on to his youngest son and Sam had stayed in the Greater Boston area having grown up in Carver about thirty miles south of Boston working in a printing business that he had started from scratch and from which he in turn had just turned over to his more modern print-imaging tech savvy son, Jeff. The pair would periodically take turns visiting each other sometimes with families in tow, sometimes not and were always available to back each other up when some anti-war or other progressive action needed additional warm bodies in Boston, New York or a national call came from Washington. Lately now that they were both retired from the day to day operations of their respective businesses and also now both after their last respective divorces “single” they have had time to visit each other.

It had been on Ralph’s last visit to Sam who now resided in Cambridge that he tentatively broached the subject of whether Sam was “seeing” anybody. Sam had been somewhat struck by the question since he could not remember the last time that term had been used by either man. Sam wondered if Ralph was about to tell him that he was “seeing” somebody or, worse, a thought he kept to himself for the moment, that Ralph had heard something from somebody about him. Of course all of the wondering and “liberated” talk about relationships occurred one summer night at Jack’s, the well-known bar in Cambridge a few streets up from where Sam lived, while both men were drinking high-shelf whisky, and not sipping so perhaps neither man should have been surprised when Sam blurred out. “Well, yes I am, I am seeing an angel of mercy.” (Before we go on that high-shelf whisky reference should be noted since in the old days when they were “from hunger” working-class kids drinking rotgut low-shelf whiskies they could not afford to drink the stuff on Jimmy the bartender’s third shelf behind him on the back wall.)            

Ralph took a double-take and maybe the liquor getting to his brain a little said, “What are you dating an ex-nun or something, you old devil I thought you swore off those Catholic virgins with the big novena book in one hand and the well-worn rosary beads in the other.” Sam laughed and then explained that his “angel of mercy,” Sarah Parsons, had been no nun but had saved his soul anyway. Then Sam proceeded to tell his little story, tell it as best he could as both men were getting a little drowsy with the hour (another virtue of Jack’s being near-by Sam’s dwelling when last call came):

“You know I had a very hard time with that last divorce from Melinda, she tried to take me for all I had, all I will ever have although Frankie Riley as usual with his sharp lawyer’s wit eased the sting a little and I survived with the business intact which Jeff runs now under a trust arrangement that Frankie worked out. What you don’t know because I never told you and you never asked and if you had I probably wouldn’t have told you anyway was things had been bad with Melinda for several years before she left the house three years ago and moved into that apartment in Plymouth that cost me an arm and a leg to pay for although I did it gladly at some level.”

“What you also don’t know is that about seven, eight years ago when I went to my fortieth class reunion from Carver High I ran into an old flame, a minute old flame whom I ditched for some other faster girl at the time but whom I would occasionally think about, think I had been a horse’s ass to dump. We talked into the wee hours that night, Melinda as usual didn’t want to go to the reunion since she didn’t want to go to her own Olde Saco High reunion why should she go to mine. That’s the way Melinda was, particularly the last few years when I think we both realized we have been ships passing in the night for a long time. Sarah and I agreed to talk and e-mail each other more and we did. You know the routine as well as I do, we talked a lot for several weeks and e-mailed cute stuff or sent links to songs we liked from YouTube, told our life stories since high school. Sarah too had been married twice unhappily, that twice seems to be the norm for our “liberated” generation and eventually although she knew I was still married agreed to a “date.” A great date at a small out of the way restaurant I know in the North End where I took a woman I had a short fling with about twenty years ago. And we hit it off, hit it off like we were still fresh and starry-eyed as in high school. Naturally we went to bed together not long after that and while she was not happy (nor was I really) with our “arrangement” she “understood” what was what.”            

“And that “understood” is important because Laura was really an angel of mercy. Maybe Melinda sensed something was up, maybe she was having her own affair although she was always home when I called but Sarah kept my spirits up, kept me on keel and I knew before she did, well before, that I was falling in love with her even though things looked bleak at home. And even though she was naturally very hesitant to love me back. Still we knew something was there, some strong bond which may have been there since high school. I like to think that in my mushy moments. Well, there are some tender mercies in the world because one day Melinda said she couldn’t stand the marriage anymore, wanted out, wanted her own “space” and she got it for my arm and my leg. Like I said Melinda tried to grab everything and would have if she had known about Sarah but Melinda was just Melinda in trying to grab everything. Nothing new there. Sarah lives in Arlington since we still are figuring out about the future but maybe we will go tomorrow and see her. Okay.”

Ralph answered back, “Okay” as they exited Jack’s and walked up the street toward Sam’s apartment and then Ralph turned his head to Sam and said, “Does your Sarah have any spare ‘angels of mercy’ hanging around?” They both laughed as they walked along in silence after that.            

An Encore Salute To The Untold Stories Of The Working- Class 1960s Radicals-“The Sam And Ralph Stories”- For The Fallen-In Honor Of The Anti-War Soldier Timothy Kerrigan (1940-2015), Vietnam 1964-1966-RIP

An Encore Salute To The Untold Stories Of The Working- Class 1960s Radicals-“The Sam And Ralph Stories”- For The Fallen-In Honor Of The Anti-War Soldier Timothy Kerrigan (1940-2015), Vietnam 1964-1966-RIP

Allan Jackson, editor The Sam And Ralph Stories -New General Introduction

[As my replacement Greg Green, whom I brought in from American Film Gazette originally to handle the day to day site operations while I concentrated on editing but who led a successful revolt against my regime based on the wishes of the younger writers to as they said at the time not be slaves to the 1960s upheavals a time which they only knew second or third hand, mentioned in his general introduction above some of the series I initiated were/are worth an encore presentation. The Sam and Ralph Stories are one such series and as we go along I will try to describe why this series was an important testament to an unheralded segment of the mass movements of the 1960s-the radicalized white working- class kids who certainly made up a significant component of the Vietnam War soldiery, some of who were like Sam and Ralph forever after suspicious of every governmental war cry. Who also somewhat belatedly got caught up in the second wave rock and roll revival which emerged under the general slogan of “drug, sex and rock and roll” which represented a vast sea change for attitudes about a lot of things that under ordinary circumstances would have had them merely replicating their parents’ ethos and fate.        

As I said I will describe that transformation in future segment introductions but today since it is my “dime” I want to once again clear up some misapprehensions about what has gone on over the past year or so in the interest of informing the readership, as Greg Green has staked his standing at this publication on doing to insure his own survival, about what goes on behind the scenes in the publishing business. This would not have been necessary after the big flap when Greg tried an “end around” something that I and every other editor worth her or his salt have tried as well and have somebody else, here commentator and my old high school friend Frank Jackman, act as general introducer of The Roots Is The Toots  rock and roll coming of age series that I believe is one of the best productions I have ever worked on. That got writers, young and old, with me or against me, led by Sam Lowell, another of my old high school friends, who had been the decisive vote against me in the “vote of no confidence” which ended my regime up in arms. I have forgiven Sam, and others, as I knew full well from the time I entered into the business that at best it was a cutthroat survival of the fittest racket. (Not only have I forgiven Sam but I am in his corner in his recent struggles with young up and coming by-line writer Sarah Lemoyne who is being guided through the shoals by another old high school friend Seth Garth as she attempts to make her way up the film critic food chain, probably the most vicious segment of the business where a thousand knives wait the unwary from so-called fellow reviewers.) The upshot of that controversy was that Greg had to back off and let me finish the introducing the series for which after all I had been present at the creation.               

That would have been the end of it but once we successfully, and thankfully by Greg who gave me not only kudos around the water cooler but a nice honorarium, concluded that series encore in the early summer of 2018 he found another way to cut me. Going through the archives of this publication to try to stabilize the readership after doing some “holy goof” stuff like having serious writers, young and old, reviewing films based on comic book characters, the latest in video games and graphic novels with no success forgetting the cardinal rule of the post-Internet world that the younger set get their information from other sources than old line academic- driven websites and don’t read beyond their techie tools Greg found another series, the one highlighted here, that intrigued him for an encore presentation. This is where Greg proved only too human since he once again attempted an “end around,” by having Josh Breslin, another old friend whom I meet in the Summer of Love, 1967 out in San Francisco, introduce the series citing my unavailability as the reason although paying attention to the fact that I had sweated bullets over that one as well.      

This time though the Editorial Board, now headed by Sam Lowell, intervened even before Greg could approach Josh for the assignment. This Ed Board was instituted after my departure to insure the operation would not descend, Sam’s word actually, into the so-called autocratic one-person rule that had been the norm under my regime. They told Greg to call me back in on the encore project or to forget it. I would not have put up with such a suggestion from an overriding Ed Board and would have willingly bowed out if anybody had tried to undermine me that way. I can understand fully Greg’s desire to cast me to the deeps, have done with me as in my time I did as well knowing others in the food chain would see this as their opportunity to move up.  

That part I had no problem with, told Greg exactly that. What bothered me was the continuing “urban legend” about what I had done, where I had gone after that decisive vote of no confidence. Greg continued, may continue today, to fuel the rumors that not only after my initial demise but after finishing up the Roots Is The Toots series I had gone back out West to Utah of all places to work for the Mormons, or to Frisco to hook up with my old flame Madame La Rue running that high-end whorehouse I had staked her to in the old days, or was running around with another old high school pal, Miss Judy Garland, aka Timmy Riley the high priestess of the drag queen set out in that same town whom I also helped stake to  his high-end tourist attraction cabaret. All nonsense, I was working on my memoir up in Maine, up in Olde Saco where Josh grew up and which I fell in love with when he first showed me his hometown and its ocean views.          

If the reader can bear the weight of this final reckoning let me clear the air on all three subjects on the so-called Western trail. Before that though I admit, admit freely that despite all the money I have made, editing, doing a million pieces under various aliases and monikers, ballooning up 3000 word articles to 10,000 and having the publishers fully pay despite the need for editing for the latter in the days before the Guild when you worked by the word, accepting articles which I clearly knew were just ripped of the AP feed and sending them along as gold I had no dough, none when I was dethroned. Reason, perfectly sane reason, although maybe not, three ex-wives with alimony blues and a parcel of kids, a brood if you like who were in thrall to the college tuition vultures.

Tapped out in the East for a lot of reasons I did head west the first time looking for work. Landed in Utah when I ran out of dough, and did, DID, try to get a job on the Salt Lake Star and would have had it too except two things somebody there, some friend of Mitt Romney, heard I was looking for work and nixed the whole thing once they read the articles I had written mocking Mitt and his white underwear world as Massachusetts governor and 2012 presidential candidate. So it was with bitter irony when I heard that Greg had retailed the preposterous idea that I would now seek a job shilling for dear white undie Mitt as press agent in his run for the open Utah United States Senate seat. Here is where everybody should gasp though at the whole Utah fantasy-these Mormons stick close together, probably ingrained in them from Joseph Smith days, and don’t hire goddam atheists and radicals, don’t hire outside the religion if they can help it. You probably had to have slept with one of Joseph Smith’s or Brigham Young’s wives to even get one foot in the door. Done.              

The helping Madame La Rue, real name of no interest or need to mention,  running her high-end exclusive whorehouse out in Half Moon Bay at least had some credence since I had staked her to some dough to get started after the downfall of the 1960s sent her back to her real world, the world of a high class hooker who was slumming with “hippies” for a while when it looked like our dreams were going to be deterred in in the ebbtide. We had been hot and heavy lovers, although never married except on some hazed drug-fogged concert night when I think Josh Breslin “married” us and sent us on a “honeymoon” with a fistful of cocaine. Down on dough I hit her up for some which she gave gladly, said it was interest on the “loan: she never repaid and let me stay at her place for a while until I had to move on. Done

The whole drag queen idea tells me that whoever started this damn lie knew nothing about my growing up days and had either seen me in The Totem, Timmy Riley’s aka Miss Judy Garland’s drinking with a few drag queen who worked and drew the wrong conclusions or was out to slander and libel me for some other nefarious reason. See Miss Judy Garland is the very successful drag queen and gay man Timmy Riley from the old neighborhood who fled to Frisco when he could no longer hide his sexual identity and preferences. To our great shock since Timmy had been the out-front gay-basher of our crowd, our working-class corner boy gay-bashing crowd. I had lent, after getting religion rather late on the LGBTQ question, Timmy the money to buy his first drag queen cabaret on Bay Street and Timmy was kind enough to stake me to some money and a roof before I decided I had to head back East. Done.

But enough about me.  This is about two other working- class guys, Sam Eaton and Ralph Morris, met along life’s road one from Carver about fifty miles away from where Seth, Sam, Timmy and a bunch of other guys grew up and learned the “normal” working-class ethos-and broke, tentatively at times, from that same straitjacket and from Troy, New York. Funny Troy, Carver, North Adamsville, and Josh’s old mill town Olde Saco all down-in-the-mouth working class towns still produced in exceptional times a clot of guys who got caught up in the turmoil of their times-and lived to tell the tale. I am proud to introduce this encore presentation and will have plenty more to say about Sam and Ralph in future segments.]

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Allan Jackson Encore Introduction

All of us who were wounded in Vietnam, in the war, mentally, spiritually, physically, which I include myself in the mix had various ways to live our service down. As I have mentioned before I would estimate that the vast majority of the couple of million Americans who served in that conflict starting from serious America escalation in 1964 to the bitter end with the famous helicopter scene of people being airlifted off the U.S. Embassy rooftop in April, 1975 did so without rancor or without the damn war putting them in a very bad place like happened with Peter Paul Markin’s “brothers under the bridges” in Southern California and continues to happen with suicides, drug dependency and all the other pathologies of the post-traumatic stress of their service. Some like Markin fell down to drugs, hubris, exhaustion with life in the “real” world. Others, and I am in this cohort as well “got religion” about the issues of war and peace which they, we would never had experienced outside having to fight the monsters, the monstrous American war machine. That is what Ralph and Sam, who wrote this piece, admired about their, our friend Timmy Kerrigan when he passed away a few years ago of cancer.

In a way Timmy’s death which I did not hear about until a few weeks after he passed so I was not at his memorial service revived something in me, something about “revisiting” the why of how the Vietnam War twisted me in a direction that, given my up-bringing, never would have happened, would never have prompted me to spent the rest of my life trying to get “on the good side of the angels.” That at least in part is the genesis on the “why” of this series when the idea was first broached. The other bigger part to the why, the why beyond Timmy, which was recently re-enforced by Lynn Novack and Ken Burns’s PBS Vietnam War series was the need to “shout out over the rooftops” to the younger generations the need to oppose the war policies of the American government, to use our “street cred” as veterans to say no to war.

Unlike say the World War II veterans, Sam, Ralph, Timmy, my father’s war while they were as silent as we were about what went on in combat had a certain pride that came with victory over fascism which is what drove many of them into the ranks, that and patriotism after December 7, 1941, after Japan blew the hell out of the fleet at Pearl Harbor we had nothing to feel good about. Nothing. I remember while I was deciding on whether to go ahead with the project running into Fritz Taylor, a Vietnam veteran from down in Fulton County, Georgia who has occasionally written for this publication, told me that except for about a week at home he had never returned to his hometown he was so ashamed of what he had done, and could not tolerate the fake patriotism that still drove his parents, his fellow townsman at the time. Had stopped mentioning at all for many years that he was a Vietnam veteran and kept whatever was inside him inside. This from a guy who won a fistful of medals for his service (medals which wound up heaved over the fence at the Supreme Court building in down in Washington, D.C in 1971). Another driving wedge at the time was my meeting a veteran of two tours, two tough Mekong Delta tours, which meant really tough tours, up in Maine when I was visiting Josh Breslin’s hometown of Olde Saco who had been married twice (and divorced twice) and had never mentioned that he had been in Vietnam to either one of his wives. That sentiment was only re-enforced by the PBS series where the wives of two ex-Marines had known each other for a dozen years, the men were friends, and yet neither knew the other had served in Vietnam. Amazing. That only contributed to my sense of urgency in doing an encore presentation. As for beautiful Timmy Kerrigan Sam and Ralph can speak on that matter far better than I could.                         

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For The Fallen-In Honor Of The Anti-War Soldier Timothy Kerrigan (1940-2015), Vietnam 1964-1966-RIP

From The Pen Of Sam Eaton

Ralph Morris is a man of few words. Don’t get the idea though that he is not capable or if in the mood or if provoked of coming up with some pithy word or phrase but he is a not a writer in the senses that I am, that I like to write. But he is a man of few words nevertheless. Strangely he has made his living off of words, not writing them but printing them up being a printer by trade. That is a trade that he has pursued ever since in about third grade he read that one of his heroes, Benjamin Franklin of American Revolution fame, had been a printer. So he took that course up in high school, apprenticed with Joe Pringle who at the time had the only print shop in Carver, in Massachusetts the town that he grew up in, and eventually set up a shop there. A successful shop until the past few years when he realized that print technology had changed so much and that he was behind the times in the copying business (after having back in the late 1960s early 1970s been in the vanguard of the silk-screening end of the business when everybody wanted that kind of work done on posters and tee-shirts) and turned the business last year over to his oldest son, Jeff, who is more savvy in the new hi-tech world.

But enough of Ralph’s history for today Ralph has other troubles on his mind, troubles about having to say a few words, really more than a few words about the late Timothy Kerrigan at his memorial service, a few words about what Timmy meant to the organization they both (me too) belonged to, Veterans for Peace, and to Ralph personally. See Timmy was something like Ralph’s mentor way back when Ralph came back to the “real” world after eighteen month of service in Vietnam in late 1969 and was something of a basket case (Ralph’s term). Timmy had eased him along, eased him along about drawing some conclusions on the hellish war that Ralph had come to hate, hate for the savage things he had done to people with whom he had no quarrel, hate for the savage things his Army buddies had done to people they had no quarrel with, and most of all the unfeeling American government which had without the slightest hesitation turned him, them into vicious animals, nothing more. Yeah, Ralph had had plenty of troubles in his doped-up head when he got back, and was not sure what to do about it when his old friends, neighbors and working-class community were still gung-ho about stuff in a war they were clueless about, knowingly clueless.

Timmy, a half dozen years older than Ralph, had served in that same war earlier, very early on from 1964 to 1966 when ninety-five percent of the country could not show you on a map where Vietnam was if you gave them ten chances and had gone through his own adjusting to the “real” world problems. He got Ralph through the tough parts back in 1970 after he had been discharged. Moreover Timmy lived in Albany, the next town over and another working-class town which did not understand the murderous assault on the sensibilities of American soldiers who served in that theater of combat.

So Timmy and Ralph in a sea of benighted patriotism helped each other out when things got dicey. See Timmy, he and it seemed then every such soldier got “religion” on the issues of war and peace and turned against the war that they had fought honorably if erroneously in decided to do something more than hang out in ill-lighted barroom sulking or “shooting up” in some backroom dope den and joined an anti-war organization. Join in his case with a bunch of other guys, a “band of brothers,” some officers, some enlisted men, some who had seen combat and some on the edges of the military machine, some grievously physically wounded, some wounded in the head, who had formed Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW), the famous organization which did a lot to turn public sentiment against the war. After all if the guys who fought the war called it by its right name, murder, had thrown their medals away, had walked in silent bedraggled cadence in the streets of major cities crying out to the heavens to stop the slaughter then most everybody had to at least give them a respectful hearing.

As everybody, or at least everybody from that generation knows, the generation of ‘68 Timmy called it from the year that the Viet Cong decided to try and take back the day, take back his and her country and not just the night which every savvy American private soldier if not every general knew belonged to him and her during the Tet offensive the American forces were ultimately forced to “skedaddle” in a hurry in 1975 and effectively ended the decade plus long American involvement in Vietnam. And that effectively ended plenty of political opposition to American war policy as the great majority of people, protestors and patriots alike, went back to “normalcy.” Ended too the big public face of VVAW.  

But see Timmy and Ralph (and I will add myself but under different circumstances explained later) were hard-headed if big-hearted guys. They took that “religious conversion” to fight against the seemingly endless wars the American (and other, believe me, other governments as well) government was determined to pursue as the greatest military power by far the world has ever known seriously and determined at some point that they would fight the “monster” until the end. So you could see them, mostly in Boston, occasionally in New York and whenever some national call came out in Washington, D.C. all through the years, some lean years when they were voices in the wilderness, some years like in the late fall of 2002 and early winter of 2003 when they were swallowed up in mass movements opposed to the impending war in Iraq. Timmy would be the rock, would steady Ralph when he got seriously depressed that their efforts were for not. Would remind Ralph that they, both Catholics so Ralph would see the point more readily, had plenty of penance to do for torching up half of Vietnam, gunning down half the poor benighted peasants who got caught in the cross-fire for no purpose. The both would be early members of a new organization of anti-war veterans that was formed in the mid-1980s to do that oppositional work in a more systematic and forceful way, Veteran For Peace (VFP) once the crowds thinned out. Yeah, Timmy was like that, was the rock as I too found out.   

I might as well explain how I met Ralph and through him Timmy and then I’ll finish up about the why of the few words Ralph was having trouble gathering his thoughts about his, our, fallen comrade. (I should point out my organizational connection. I am an associate member of VFP not having had to serve in the military due to the fact that I was the sole surviving son after my father died suddenly of a massive heart attack in 1965 leaving me as the sole support for my mother and four much younger sisters. That VFP associate status except for a few organization items which are restricted to veterans is the same as veteran membership.) It all goes back to the spring of 1971 when I, along with a bunch of radicals and “reds” that I hung with in Saratoga Springs, New York from Skidmore College and other campuses around Albany and Troy, the town Ralph grew up in, were totally frustrated with the endless Vietnam War. Maybe not as frustrated as the Vietnamese who had plenty of reason to be in that condition, and more so than us but we were still desperately committed to ending the war. Ending the war by building a “second front” as some “movement” theoretician called it at the time and most of us bought into that designation as an act of solidarity with the Vietnamese (expressed in slogans like “Victory to the NLF (National Liberation Front)”and waving the tri-color NLF flag on the American streets.

The idea was simple, or so we thought, and the working slogan we used to organize the efforts kind of puts it in clear enough language-“If the government will not shut down the war, we will shut down the government.” Simple, right. Waltz into Washington on May Day (the international workers holiday although we linked it more to the socialist-tinged point of the day) like some Calvinist avenging angels and be done with it. Well, to cut to the chase, all we got was tear gas, police billy-clubs and the bastinado for our efforts as you could probably have figured out.   

Thousands of us were herded (which is exactly the right word) into the Robert F. Kennedy football stadium which was the main holding area (until that got too crowded and other locations were used) as the police and every other military and law enforcement unit in the D.C. area swooped down on us. Ralph and I met while in detention in RFK when Ralph noticed my VVAW button and asked if I belonged.  I said no that I had not served in the military but that my closest friend, my corner boy from high school in front of Mia’s Pizza Parlor in the Ocean  Street section of Carver, Jeff Mullins, had been senselessly killed in action in the Central Highlands and had written me letters a few months before he was blown away telling me how brutal things were there, how bad the things he and his buddies had to do there were and that if he did not make it back to make sure that I spread the word. So I did (and do) and so I wore the button in honor of him. Since Ralph and I were in detention for a few days (we eventually walked out of the place when we found out that there were exits in the place which the over-stretched law enforcement forces had left unguarded) something about my story, something about my life story and his kept us talking like two jaybirds (a little passed stashed dope and a ton of donated coffee helped with what I would find out later was actually “few words” Ralph).

Ralph explained that he had gone to D.C. on Timmy’s urging as part of the VVAW contingent that also was committed to the same action I was involved in but they wanted to have their own veterans’ brigade. See Timmy was a known activist/agitator for civil disobedience from early on in VVAW (as opposed to those like John Kerry who wanted to go the legislative or electoral route) and had been one of the steering committee organizers for the overall action such as it was. Timmy in later years, in VFP years as well would be a vocal and sometimes overbearing advocate for civil disobedience when the occasion called for it (and a couple of times when it seemed foolhardy but we went along carried by the force of his argument). That was strong Timmy (who was personally one of the gentlest people on the planet).

But here was the beauty of Timmy. He walked the walk. That May Day of 1971 VVAW wanted to surround the Pentagon and “shut it down,” symbolically somewhat like the anti-war forces had done in 1967 trying to “levitate” the building as described in Norman Mailer’s award-winning novel Armies of the Night. For his part in the attempt (they never got close just as we never got close when we tried to “capture” the White House). If all of this seems a little foolhardy now remember we were desperate to end the war and our governmental opponents and their hangers-on would have been just as happy to see our bodies floating on in the Potomac River as have their authority challenged. However Timmy, as a “ring-leader” had a special single cell provided for his efforts which he occupied for a week, including a few days on a hunger strike. Yes, Timmy always walked the walk. You could depend on that.                

I would meet Timmy some weeks later when I wound up going to Ralph’s house in Troy after I had decided to move for the year to Cambridge to join the radicals and “reds” there. We three talked for many hours then (and later) and I learned a lot from him, learned how to stay the course when times were not too good for the messages we were trying to get across. Learned too that one well-planned public campaign at the right time and with the right media exposure could push the movement along much further than the endless vigils of Quakers and pacifists, bless their souls.(My sisters by the way by then were all grown and were providing the main support for my mother since they were working and living at home-they also were as apolitical and/or as hostile as any anonymous pro-war sympathizers, especially my mother who I had many difficulties with then but that is for another day.)    

And that brings us to Ralph’s dilemma. Timothy Francis Kerrigan passed away after a long bout with cancer on July 10, 2015. Timmy, not a religious man, although he continued to unlike Ralph profess his Catholic faith, wanted not such ceremony but rather a simple service in which his VFP buddies, particularly Ralph, would say a few words (he had in the hospice before he passed away expressed a desire that they be kind words if possible but words of some sort nevertheless). See here was Ralph’s real dilemma though he wanted no “help” from me who usually would put his many times insightful thoughts into words. Well on July 15, 2015 the service in memory of Timmy took place. Here is what Ralph had to say:

“Some people are leaders by holding the mere mantle of official authority. Some people are leaders by the force of their arguments. Some people are leaders by example. Timothy Francis Kerrigan, my brother anti-war veteran, led by the latter two. Timmy was the conscience of VFP, Timmy walked the walk which needs no further explanation to this audience. He will be missed. Timothy Francis Kerrigan, Presente. Ralph Morris says good voyage-RIP, brother, RIP.’’   

Enough said.