This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
[For additional understanding of the Korean situation and the continuing US aggression
there -- AH]
‘Ghosts of Jeju’ film and discussion
Monday, February 26, 6:30pm
Community Church of Boston, 565 Boylston St., Copley Square, Boston
Free admission.small donations accepted towards costs, accessible to some wheelchair users (small elevator)
The Greater Boston Chapter of the Green-Rainbow Party will be showing ‘Ghosts of Jeju’, Regis Tremblay’s film about the struggle of the Korean Jeju Islanders to oppose construction of a military base that is destroying the environment there and that will be used for U.S. imperialist war in the wider region. This is part of our twice-monthly film and discussion series.
The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of
’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Night- Ain’t
Got No Time For Corner Boys-Harry's Variety
A YouTube film clip of Tom
Waits performing the song Jersey Girl that formed part of the
inspiration for this post.
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
Riding down the old neighborhood
streets a while back, the old North Adamsville working class streets, streets
dotted with triple-deckers housing multiple families along with close-quarter,
small cottage-sized single family houses like the one of Tim Murphy’s own
growing to manhood time in the early 1970s. He reflected as he drove on how
little the basic structure of things had changed with the changing of the
ethnic composition of those streets. Sure many of the houses had been worked
on, new roofs, new siding, maybe a deck add-on for the ritualistic family
barbecue (barbecues that his family on the infrequent occasions that they
actually had one were taken at Treasure Island a picnic area that provided pits
for the grill-less like his from hunger family on the site), maybe an add-on of
a room if that home equity loan came through (or the refinance worked out). The
lawns, manicured or landscaped like some miniature English garden, reflected
some extra cash and care that in his time was prohibited by the needs to fix up
the insides first or save money for emergencies like the furnace blowing out in
mind-winter. In all the tradition of keeping up appearances as best you could had
been successfully transferred to the new inhabitants (keeping up appearances
being a big reason work was done back then in those old judgmental Irish
streets, maybe now to for all he knew).
Whatever condition the houses were
in, and a few as to be expected when there are so many houses in such a small
area were getting that run-down feel that he saw more frequently back in the
day by those not worried by the “keeping up appearances” ethos, the houses reflected,
no, exclaimed right to their tiny rooftops, that seemingly eternal overweening
desire to have, small or not, worth the trouble or not, something of one’s own
against the otherwise endless servitude of days. Suddenly, coming to an
intersection, Tim was startled, no, more than that he was forced into a
double-take, by the sight of some guys, some teenage guys hanging, hanging
hard, one foot on the ground the other bent holding up the infernal brick wall
that spoke of practice and marking one’s territory, against the oncoming night
in front of an old time variety store, a mom and pop variety from some extinct
times before the 7/11 chain store, fast shop, no room for corner boys, police
take notice, dark night.
Memory called it Kelly’s (as almost
every local institution was called from that small dream of ownership and out
of hard manual labor variety store to the Dublin Grille bar that transfixed
many a neighborhood father, including his father Michael Murphy to the shanty
born, or else had an Italian surname reflecting the other major ethnic group,
and at times mortal enemies). Today the name is Chiang’s. From the look of
them, baggy-panted, latest fashion footwear name sneakered, baseball
cap-headed, all items marked, marked with the insignia (secretly, and with no
hope of outside decoding) signifying their "homeboy" associations (he
would say gang, meaning of course corner boy gang, but that word is charged
these days and this is not exactly what it looked like, at least to the public
eye, his public eye) they could be the grandsons, probably not biological
because these kids were almost all Asians speckled with a couple of
Irish-lookers, shanty Irish-lookers, of the ghost be-bop night guys that held Tim
in thrall in those misty early 1970s times.
Yeah, that tableau, that time-etched
scene, got Tim to thinking of some long lost comrades of the schoolboy night
like the hang-around guys in front of Harry’s Variety several blocks away (Harry
O’Toole, the most “connected” guy in the neighborhood after Jimmy Mulvey who
ran the Dublin Grille, since he ran the local “book”), although comrades might
not be the right word because he had been just some punk young kid trying to be
a wannabe, or half-wannabe, corner boy and they had no time for punk kids and
later when he came of age he had no time for corner boys being unlike his older
brothers, Red and Digger, a serious student and not a hell-raiser like them
giving Martha Murphy nothing but the miseries. (He gave Ma Murphy his own
miseries later but that was when all of society, all youth nation society, was
going through a sea-change and he just travelled in that stream to her angers
and dismays, especially his wardrobe and physical appearance.)
Yeah, that scene got Tim to thinking
of the old time corner boys who ruled the whole wide North Adamsville night
(and day for those who didn’t work or go to school, which was quite a few on
certain days, because most of these guys were between sixteen and their early
twenties with very jittery school and work histories better left unspoken then,
or else if you wanted to make something of it they would oblige you with some
fists). Yeah, got Tim thinking about where the white tee-shirted, blue-jeaned,
engineer-booted, cigarette-smoking, unfiltered of course (Luckies the “coffin
nails” of choice, sneering (learned from watching, closely watching and
repeatedly Marlon Brando in The Wild One and
James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause
at the retro- Strand Theater up on Main Street), soda-swilling, Coke,
naturally, pinball wizards held forth daily and nightly, and let him cadge a
few odd games when they had more important business, more important girl
business, to attend to. Either a date with some hot “fox” sitting in some
souped up car looking like the queen of the Nile or putting their girls to
“work,” pimping them in other words. Tim had been clueless about that whole
scene until much later, that pimping scene, he had just assumed that they were
“easy” and left it at that. Hell he had his own sex problems, or really no sex
problems although if he had known what he found out from Red and Digger he
might have paid more attention to those “loose women.”
Yeah, Tim got to thinking too about
Harry’s, old Harry’s Variety over there near his grandmother’s house (on his
mother’s side, nee Riley) over there in that block on Sagamore Street where the
Irish workingman’s whiskey-drinking (with a beer chaser), fist-fighting,
sports-betting after a hard day’s work Dublin Grille was located.
Harry’s was on the corner of that block. Now if you have some image, some
quirky, sentimental image, of Harry’s as being run by an up-and-coming just
arrived immigrant guy, maybe with a big family, trying to make this
neighborhood store thing work so he can take in, take in vicariously anyway,
the American dream like you see running such places now forget it. Harry’s was
nothing, like he had said before, but a “front.” Old Harry, Harry O’Toole, now
long gone, was nothing but the neighborhood “bookie” known far and wide to one
and all as such. Even the cops would pull up in their squad cars to place their
bets, laughingly, with Harry in the days before state became the
bookie-of-choice for most bettors. And he had his “book”, his precious
penciled-notation book right out on the counter. But see punk kid Tim, even
then just a little too book-unworldly didn’t pick up on that fact until, old
grandmother, Jesus, Grandmother Riley who knew nothing of the world and was
called a saint by almost everybody, everybody but husband Daniel Riley when he
was in his cups “hipped” him to the fact.
Until then Tim didn’t think anything
of the fact that Harry had about three dust-laden cans of soup, two dust-laden
cans of beans, a couple of loaves of bread (Wonder Bread, if you want to
know) on his dust-laden shelves, a few old quarts of milk and an ice chest full
of tonic (now called soda, even by New Englanders) and a few other odds and
ends that did not, under any theory of economics, capitalist or Marxist, add up
to a thriving business ethos. Unless, of course, something else was going on.
But what drew Tim to Harry’s was not that stuff anyway. What drew him to
Harry’s was, one, his pin ball machine complete with corner boy players and
their corner boy ways, and, two, his huge Coca Cola ice chest (now sold
as antique curiosities for much money at big-time flea markets and other
venues) filled with ice cold, cold tonics (see above), especially the local Robb’s
Root Beer that Tim was practically addicted to in those days (and that
Harry, kind-hearted Harry, stocked for him).
Many an afternoon, a summer’s
afternoon for sure, or an occasional early night, Tim would sip, sip hard on his
Robb’s and watch the corner boys play, no sway, sway just right, with
that sweet pinball machine, that pin ball machine with the bosomy,
lusty-looking, cleavage-showing women pictured on the top glass frame of the
machine practically inviting you, and only you the player, on to some secret
place if you just put in enough coins. Of course, like many dream-things what
those lusty dames really gave you, only you the player, was maybe a few free
games. Teasers, right. But Tim had to just watch at first because he was too
young (you had to be sixteen to play), however, every once in a while, one of
the corner boys who didn’t want to just gouge out his eyes for not being a
corner boy, or for no reason at all, would let him cadge a game while Harry was
not looking. When he thought about it though, now anyway, Harry was so
“connected” (and you know what he meant by that) what the hell did he care if
some underage kid, punk kid, cadged a few games and looked at those bosomy
babes in the frame.
Yeah, and thinking about Harry’s
automatically got Tim thinking about Daniel (nobody ever called him that, ever)
“Red” Hickey, the boss king of his schoolboy night at Harry’s. Red, the guy who
set the rules, set the style, hell, set the breathing, allowed or not and when,
of the place. He didn’t know if Red went to some corner boy school to learn his
trade but he was the be-bop daddy (at least all the girls, all the hanging all
over him girls, called him that) because he, except for one incident that Tim will
mention below, ruled unchallenged with an iron fist. At least Tim never saw his
regular corner boys Spike, Lenny, Shawn, Ward, Goof (yes, that was his name the
only name Tim knew him by, and he liked it, that is Goof like his moniker), Bop
(real name William) or the Clipper (real name Kenny, the arch-petty Woolworth’s
thief of the group hence the name) challenge him, or want to.
Yeah, Red, old red-headed Red was
tough alright, and has a pretty good-sized built but that was not what kept the
others in line. It was a certain look he had, a certain look that if Tim went
to the trouble of describing it now would go way overboard describing it as some stone-cold killer look,
some psycho-killer look but that would be wrong because it didn’t show that
way. But that was what it was. Tim thought he had better put it this way. Tommy
Thunder, older brother of his junior high and high school best friend and a
corner boy king in his own right, Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, a big bruiser
of a legendary North Adamsville football player and human wrecking machine who
lived a few doors up from Harry’s went out of his way not to go near the place.
See, Red was that tough.
Red was like some general, or
colonel or something, an officer at least, and besides being tough, he would
“inspect” his troops to see that all and sundry had their “uniform” right.
White tee-shirt, full-necked, no vee-neck sissy stuff, no muscle shirt
half-naked stuff, straight 100% cotton, American-cottoned, American-textiled,
American-produced, ironed, mother-ironed Tim was sure, crisp. One time Goof
(sorry that’s all he knew him by, really) had a wrinkled shirt on and Red
marched him up the street to his triple-decker cold-water walk-up flat and
berated, berated out loud for all to hear, Goof’s mother for letting him out of
the house like that. And Red, old Red like all Irish guys sanctified mothers,
at least in public, so you can see he meant business on the keeping the uniform
right question.
And like some James Dean or Marlon
Brando tough guy photo, some motorcycle disdainful, sneering guy photo, each
white tee-shirt, or the right sleeve of each white tee-shirt anyway, was rolled
up to provide a place, a safe haven, for the ubiquitous package of cigarettes,
matches inserted inside its cellophane outer wrapping, Luckies,
Chesterfields, Camels, Pall Malls, all unfiltered in defiance of the then
beginning incessant cancer drumbeat warnings, for the day’s show of manliness
smoking pleasures.
And blue jeans, tight fit, no this
scrub-washed, fake-worn stuff, but worn and then discarded worn. No chinos, no
punk kid, maybe faux "beatnik," black chinos, un-cuffed, or cuffed
like Tim wore, and Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, king of the faux beatnik junior
high school night, including among his devotees Tim, a little too bookish Tim, who
was as tough a general, colonel, or some officer anyway, as corner boy Red was
with his guys. Frankie example: no cuffs on those black chinos, stay home, or
go elsewhere, if you are cuffed. Same kingly manner, right? Corner boys
blue-jeaned and wide black-belted, black always, black-belt used as a handy
weapon for that off-hand street fight that might erupt out of nowhere, for no
reason, or many. Maybe a heavy-duty watch chain, also war-worthy, dangly down
from those jeans. Boots, engineer boots, black and buckled, worn summer or winter,
heavy, heavy-heeled, spit-shined, another piece of the modern armor for street
fight nights. Inspection completed the night’s work lies ahead.
And most nights work, seemingly
glamorous to Tim’s little too bookish eyes at the time, was holding up some corner
of the brick wall in front or on the side of Harry’s Variety with those
engineer boots, one firmly on the ground the other bent against the wall, small
talk, small low-tone talk between comrades waiting, waiting for… Or just
waiting for their turn at that Harry luscious ladies pictured pinball machine.
Protocol, strictly observed, required “General Red” to have first coin in the
machine. But see old Red was the master swayer with that damn machine and would
rack up free games galore so, usually, he was on that thing for a while.
Hey, Red was so good, although this
is not strictly part of the story, that he could have one of his several honeys
right in front of him on the machine pressing some buttons and he behind
pressing some other buttons Red swaying and his Capri-panted honey, usually
some blond, real or imagined, blonde that is depending on the bottle, swaying,
and eyes glazing, but he thought he had better let off with that description
right now, as he was getting a little glassy-eyed himself at the thought, and because
like he said it was strictly speaking not part of the story.
What is part of the story is that
Red, when he was in the mood or just bored, or had some business, some girl
business, maybe that blond, real or imagined, just mentioned business would
after Tim had been hanging around a while, and Redthought he was okay, give him his leftover
free games.
Now that was the “innocent” part of
Red, the swaying pinball wizard, girl-swaying, inspector general part. But see
if you want to be king of the corner boy night you have to show your metal once
in a while, if for no other reason than the corner boys, the old time North
Adamsville corner boys might be just a little forgetful of who the king hell
corner boy was, or as Tim will describe, some other corner boy king of some
other variety store night might show up to see what was what.
Tim must have watched the Harry’s
corner boy scene for a couple of years, maybe three, the last part just off and
on, but he only remembered once when he saw
Red show “his colors.” Some guy from Adamsville, some tough-looking guy who, no
question, was a corner boy just stopped at Harry’s after tipping a couple, or
twenty, at the Dublin Grille. He must have said something to Red, or
maybe Red just knew instinctively that he had to show his colors, but all of a
sudden these two were chain-whipping each other. No, that’s not quite right,
Red was wailing, flailing, nailing, chain-whipping this other guy mercilessly,
worst, if that is possible. The guy, after a few minutes, was left in a pool of
blood on the street, ambulance ready. And Red just walked way, just kind of
sauntering away.
Of course that is not the end of the
Red story. Needless to say, no work, no wanna work Red had to have coin, dough,
not just for the pinball machine, cigarettes, and soda, hell, that was nothing.
But for the up-keep on his Chevy (Chevy then being the “boss” car, and not just
among corner boys either), and that stream of ever-loving blond honeys, real or
imagined blonde depending on the bottle, he escorted into the seashore night.
So said corner boys did their midnight creep around the area grabbing this and
that to bring in a little dough. Eventually Red “graduated” to armed robberies
when the overhead grew too much for little midnight creeps, and graduated to
one of the branches of the state pen, more than once. Strangely, his end came,
although Tim only heard about this second hand, after a shoot-out with the cops
down South after he tried to rob some White Hen convenience store. There
is some kind of moral there, although Tim thought he would be damned if he
could figure it out. Red, thanks for those free games though.
Most of the points that I made in a previous review, the first two paragraphs of which are reposted below, of a Josh White DVD film documentary apply here as well. "I have spent no little ink over the past year or so reviving memories of various folk and blues artists whose music helped me pass away my youth, a youth that otherwise would have been cluttered solely with little things like the fight for a more just society, attempts to understand history and, maybe as importantly, the individuals role in it-mine. As a part of that past I had spent more than a few Sunday evenings listening to a folk program on a local radio station. As a result I became very familiar with the name Josh White as an exemplar of soulful folk and blues tunes. And the first song that I recall hearing from this iconic figure?- "You, Can't Get No Bread With One Meatball". Go figure, right? That oddly funny selection (not played here, although it would have been nice to hear it again), fortunately, does not reflect the very serious nature of Josh White's work, his personality and his struggle as a fighter for black liberation. We are treated to all aspects of that work in this one hour film of rare clips; mostly it appears to be material from early television performances. We are favored with the smooth voice, the strong guitar work (when required to give urgency to songs like the anti-Jim Crow ones presented here early on) and the sense of showmanship and professionalism that I remember the folk historian Dave Van Ronk mentioning concerning Josh's approach to performing. But what stand out here are the songs- from the intense "Strange Fruit" (an anti-Jim Crow song also covered in a different way by Billie Holiday) to a crowd-pleasing "Danny Boy". If this is your first exposure to this legendary figure in the folk and blues world then I would only state you have found a good place to start." That said, it is only necessary to make a few extra comments here about the range of material that White was capable of delivering depending on audience and other circumstances but first this political comment. Smithsonian Folkway, almost by definition, provides great liner notes accompanying its productions. According to those provided here, written by folk historian Elijah Wald who has more recently written a biography of folk singer Dave Van Ronk, Brother White ran afoul of the House Un-American Activities Committee during the heart of the McCarthyite "red scare" campaign of the 1950's. While it is unclear whether White named names he did not, as was necessary, refuse to co-operate. This tarnished his reputation in the New York left-wing community. And it should have. One can nevertheless understand why the various anti-red committees and others would have an interest in Brother White. I mentioned, for one, his version of the anti-lynching "Strange Fruit" above. How about Langston Hughes' "Freedom Road" for another. Or "Jim Crow". Or "Landlord". But, you get the drift. Then there is the less political stuff that still would have to be a little suspect once you realized this was someone trying to be a black liberation fighter, before it was fashionable (or safe). Here Cole Porter's "Miss Otis Regrets" is fine. As is "Careless Love" and Victoria Spivey's "T B Blues". And, of course, that above-mentioned "One Meatball". I wish Brother White had held up better politically but he has no problem standing up musically. Freedom Road written by: Langston Hughes, sung by:Josh White Hand me my gun, let the bugle blow loud I’m on my way with my head up proud One objective I’ve got in view Is to keep ahold of freedom for me and you That’s why I’m marching, yes, I’m marching Marching down Freedom’s Road Ain’t nobody gonna stop me, nobody gonna keep me From marching down Freedom’s Road It ought to be plain as the nose on your face There’s room in this land for every race Some folks think that freedom just ain’t right Those are the very people I want to fight . . . United we stand, divided we fall Let’s make this land safe for one and all I’ve got a message and you know it’s right Black and white together, unite and fight! The Free and Equal Blues variation written by: Josh White (a slightly different version was written originally by Yip Harburg) I went down to that St. James Infirmary, and I saw some plasma there, I ups and asks the doctor man, "Say was the donor dark or fair?" The doctor laughed a great big laugh, and he puffed it right in my face, He said, "A molecule is a molecule, son, and the damn thing has no race." And that was news, yes that was news, That was very, very, very special news. 'Cause ever since that day we’ve had those free and equal blues. "You mean you heard that doc declare That the plasma in that test tube there could be White man, black man, yellow man, red?" "That’s just what that doctor said." The doc put down his doctor book and gave me a very scientific look And he spoke out plain and clear and rational, He said, "Metabolism is international." Chorus Then the doc rigged up his microscope with some Berlin blue blood, And, by gosh, it was the same as Chun King, Quebechef, Chattanooga, Timbuktoo blood Why, those men who think they’re noble Don’t even know that the corpuscle is global Trying to disunite us with their racial supremacy, And flying in the face of old man chemistry, Taking all the facts and trying to twist ëem, But you can’t overthrow the circulatory system. Chorus So I stayed at that St. James Infirmary. (I couldn’t leave that place, it was too interesting) But I said to the doctor, "Give me some more of that scientific talk talk," and he did: He said, "Melt yourself down into a crucible Pour yourself out into a test tube and what have you got? Thirty-five hundred cubic feet of gas, The same for the upper and lower class." Well, I let that pass . . . "Carbon, 22 pounds, 10 ounces" "You mean that goes for princes, dukeses and countses?" "Whatever you are, that’s what the amounts is: Carbon, 22 pounds, 10 ounces; iron, 57 grains." Not enough to keep a man in chains. "50 ounces of phosophorus, that’s whether you’re poor or prosperous." "Say buddy, can you spare a match?" "Sugar, 60 ordinary lumps, free and equal rations for all nations. Then you take 20 teaspoons of sodium chloride (that’s salt), and you add 38 quarts of H2O (that’s water), mix two ounces of lime, a pinch of chloride of potash, a drop of magnesium, a bit of sulfur, and a soupÁon of hydrochloric acid, and you stir it all up, and what are you?" "You’re a walking drugstore." "It’s an international, metabolistic cartel." And that was news, yes that was news, So listen, you African and Indian and Mexican, Mongolian, Tyrolean and Tartar, The doctor’s right behind the Atlantic Charter. The doc’s behind the new brotherhood of man, As prescribed at San Francisco and Yalta, Dumbarton Oaks, and at Potsdam: Every man, everywhere is the same, when he’s got his skin off. And that’s news, yes that’s news, That’s the free and equal blues!
Yeah, Cowgirl In The Sand-With Neil Young (and Crazy Horse) In Mind-Take Two
By Special Guest Lance Lawrence
Zack James when he was younger, much younger back in the early 1960s younger, now too for that matter was, well, how can we put it, maybe women-addled would be best way to explain it to a candid world or at least once you get the lowdown to an understanding world. Ever since the end of high school, the beginning of college except for one short period he had always had some kind of woman relationship to confuse his sweet ass life (he hadn’t been very successful in high school too shy and too poor to make a hit with any of his female fellow high-schoolers so the end of high school seems the right place to start his women-addledness [sic, I think]). Of late that streak had taken a sudden stop his latest flame of the past few years, Loretta, had flown the coop, had given him his walking papers, had decided that they had drifted too far apart, that she wanted to find herself, see who she was and what she would do with the rest of her life. Fair enough although the pain of her departure for parts unknown left a big hole in his heart, left him bereft for a while. But had also given him time to see what he was about, where he wanted to head.
A lot of what Loretta had said about the need for her to cut Zack loose was dead-on, was right as she had been usually right about what ailed Zack. He always found himself behind the curve when it came to what Loretta was thinking about, what he was able to reflect in the lonely hours that he had recently spent in the house they had shared together over the previous several years. Had had to agree that the last year of so as his health had declined with some fairly serious medical issues which had required that he take some medicines that seem to pile up on each other and had made him, well, grumpy and cranky, a grumpy cranky old man if the truth be known especially as those medical problems dove-tailed with his turning three score and ten, turning seventy to not be cute about it. Had made him aware as never before of his own mortality and instead of taking it easy, instead of increasingly relaxing, instead of being at peace with himself, instead of trying to put out the fire in his head he was more driven than ever to find his place in the sun, to have his life have meaning at the end. As to his relationship with Loretta he had let himself drift apart, left her unattended, and okay left her to seek her own newer world.
During some of those lonely hours in that desolate house which creaked eerily to his ears Zack began to think through his whole life, who was he kidding his whole relationship with the women who had festooned his sweet ass life, had made life bearable for him. What he had found out, was trying to think through is that he really needed, very much needed the companionship of a woman, and if it was not going to be Loretta, hell, she essentially left no forwarding address all he had was her cellphone number so she could be anywhere, then it had to be somebody else. Rather than go right out and jump into the “meat market,” that is what they called it when he was younger and if they had a different name for the process it was still the same ordeal he decided that he had better take stock of himself and where he has been, and what he wanted out of a relationship now. Any reflection on his apart about failed relationships, and there were plenty, always, always, always led him back to the “cowgirl in the sand,” always led him back to Mariah Welsh, back when he decided he wanted his first serious relationship.
That “cowgirl in the sand” was no cute inside joke and it still pained Zack to even think about Mariah and how she led him a merry chase in that one summer, the summer of 1966, they had stayed together. See Mariah was actually from the West, had grown up on a big cattle ranch just outside of Cheyenne out in Wyoming country and had some certain set western ways for a young woman of twenty. He had met her down in Falmouth, down in the Cape Cod area of Massachusetts about fifty miles from where he lived, down near the beach in the summer of 1966 just after his sophomore year in college. He had been renting a place with several other fellow college students for the summer who were as dedicated to partying as he was and that was that.
He had actually seen her a couple of times on the beach at Falmouth Heights near where they had rented the cottage and thought that she looked very fine in her skimpy bikini (then skimpy which today would be considered modest) but was not sure how to approach her. One day he decided to go up and invite her to the weekly weekend party that his cottage put on and see what happened. (That weekend party almost literally true as the party would start early Friday afternoon and end at some Happy Hour bar early Sunday evening inevitably a few people, including Zack, would carry over until Monday or Tuesday if the spirit moved them or they had some hot date that kept the fires burning that long).
As Zack approached her she had brought him up short when she saw him coming and shouted out “Here comes the boy who has been checking me out, checking out my shape as far as I can tell from those sly looks he gave my way and who knows what else he was thinking about, but was afraid to come up and say hello.” Yeah, that was the kind of girl, young woman, Mariah was all through that hot summer relationship. She claimed one night when they had gotten better acquainted that unlike uptight people from the East Coast people from the West, from cattle country, were more plainspoken, less hung up about speaking out about what they wanted-or who they wanted.
Needless to say Zack and Mariah spent the rest of that afternoon talking about this and that, mostly dreary college stuff since Mariah was also a student at the University of Wyoming studying art. (She was an exceptionally good artist, had drawn a couple of charcoal drawings of him which he had kept for years afterward even when he was married to Josie, his first wife, and Josie had asked who had done it and he had foolishly told her and he had had to hide the damn things. Josie had later when they were separating torn the works up-yes, it was that kind of breakup). As they talked Mariah made no bones about showing off her very fine body, slender, small but firm breasts which he was attracted in women, well-turned long legs and thin ankles, blondish brown hair, sea blue eyes and a wicked smile that would melt butter on a cold day. They made that primal connection that said they had something to do together what it would be who knew but something.
Mariah had told Zack that she had come East with a couple of her college girlfriends since none of them had ever been east of the Mississippi and had been thrilled when they first saw the ocean, had frolicked in the waves and one girl had almost gone under when a sudden riptide which they were totally ignorant of started pulling her down. But that scare was soon over since the girl had allowed herself to drift until the current subsided. They were staying for the summer over on Maravista a few blocks away from the beach (and maybe half a dozen blocks away from Zack’s cottage) in a tiny cottage in back of the landlord’s yard which he usually let out to students who worked in the restaurants and such places for the summer. As the hot tanning sun began to fade a bit by four Zack then popped the question of whether she and her girlfriends were up for a party that weekend. All Mariah asked about though was would there be booze and dope there. When Zack answered yes Mariah said they would surely, her word, be there and she had better not see him talking to some other girl when she arrived. Bingo.
That booze and dope stuff needs a little explaining since Zack and his fellows were all under official drinking age (as were Mariah and her friends at least in Massachusetts) so they “hired” an older guy who was living with a bunch of his older friends up their street to “buy” for them and he would get a big bottle of liquor, usually scotch, as his service charge. The dope thing was a little more problematic since dope, marijuana, maybe some speed when a connection could be made, was not that widely used then by the youth fresh college generation although that movement was beginning to build up a head of steam. At that time “booze heads,” representing a more working class ethos and “dopers” were at loggerheads something that would get settled out later in the decade. “Jazz”, one of his roommates at their cottage and at school, had connections in Cambridge and so they never lacked for dope although more than a few girls would back off once they smelled the dope and didn’t know what the hell they were in for. So Mariah already was ahead of that crowd.
As they were getting ready to part company after Zack gave Mariah his address and had told her to come by anytime on Friday afternoon or later Mariah told him to wait a minute until she put her street clothes on and they could walk off the beach together toward her car (Zack had walked over to the beach since he unlike several of his roommates did not have a car and was driven down to the Cape by Willy another roommate). Zack was shocked, mildly shocked anyway, when Mariah put on her blue jean shorts, a frilly lacy cowgirl-type blouse, and, get this, her cowboy boots, and her cowgirl hat what he would later find out was called a Ladies’ Stetson. She looked like she had just gotten ready to go to the rodeo, or the state fair. Something told Zack that this was going to be an interesting ride indeed. Mariah must have sensed that because as they approached her car for her to leave she asked Zack whether he liked her outfit, and then said in her plain spoken Western way, “Maybe you can play cowboy with me if things work out.” Giving Zack a soft sexy look like if things worked out she would give him a ride he would not forget. Whoa!
That Friday evening Mariah and her two girlfriends arrived, guess what, dressed up very similarly to the way Mariah had been dressed as she and Zack left the beach a few days before which caused a sensation, a sensation at the novelty of the garb in Falmouth in the summer and also that the two girlfriends were “hot” as well. Zack fortunately was alone when they entered (he had earlier been talking to Cissie, an old flame whom he figured to rekindle a flame with that night since he had frankly given up the idea that Mariah was going to show, it would not have been the first time, or the last, some young thing had promised the moon to him and never showed up). Mariah came right over and asked if he had a joint, a joint she said to calm her nerves, make her feel good among the party-goers all of whom were eying her the guys for obvious reasons the women also for obvious reasons if they were with a guy.
Zack called over to “Jazz” who delivered a huge joint from dope he had “connected” with only that afternoon which made Mariah eyes widen and after taking a few “hits” said to Zack “You may be playing cowboy tonight after all.” In that instance her statement proved not to be true because she got so “wasted” that she fell asleep but the next night’s party, or really a continuation of Friday’s party she and Zack got it on in one of the empty bedrooms upstairs (not his room, the room where he had all his possessions, but nobody was particular about such arrangements when a “hot” date needed a place to put her head down).
What struck Zack about Mariah (beside that Western plain-spokenness that he was not used to with the local girls, mostly Irish girls who descended on the Cape with as the saying went “ten dollars and their virtue” and left with both intact or standoffish WASPish girls from the better colleges who were sometimes more trouble than they were worth in trying to get next to them if you were not seriously looking to be upward mobile after your college hijinks) was how sexually experienced and into doing sex she was even that first night when she did a lot of stuff that most other girls he knew were not into, like giving a good blow job. When they talked about it later Mariah told him that those cowboys out in the West, the ones who worked for her father broke her in early at thirteen and she liked it, liked it enough to read books in high school about various sexual positions and practices from a manual. (It turned out to be the Kama Sutra, the ancient Indian bible of sex for those who are clueless).
So for several weeks that summer Zack and Mariah were what would be called an “item” today, were almost inseparable. Went to the beach, partied, had great sex (mostly based on her knowledge and Zack’s willingness as a subject) and Zack assumed would find some way to continue their relationship at summer’s end. When that time came though Mariah told him straight out that theirs was a summer fling and that she was heading back to school in Wyoming and back to her boyfriend. The night they parted though, despite Zack’s futile pleading that they stay together some way and then giving up when she cut him off which she said was also a Western way, she gave him a parting sexual bout that he still remembered with heat fifty years later. Yeah, Zack was women-addled, always was being played by them. Praise be.
Out In The Black Liberation Night- The Black Panthers And The Struggle For The Ten-Point Program- Four- A Home Of One's Own
Lettie Morse had been sitting on the rim of the world.Lettie , all of eighteen, and sweet child- mother of three young children (ages, if you can believe this, and you will once the facts become known, two girls four and three and a boy, one) was just that moment sheltered against the rawness of life, if just for that moment, over at that Sally ‘s Harbor Lights safe house (Salvation Army for those not in need of their facilities and only familiar with their operations at supermarkets and the like ringing bells and seeking dollars at Christmas) in the deep South End section ofBoston over by Blackstone Park.And like all such citizens caught up on the rim of the world Lettie had a story, and a dream too. Not a long story, not at eighteen, and not when one is on the rim of the world when just getting by from one day to the next, hell, just one step in front of you to the next, took up your hours, and not the stuff of story, or parable either.
See Lettie, sweet child-mother Lettie, considered herself, and was considered by friend and family alike to be, how to put it kindly, an ugly duckling (although motherhood became her as she held forth black Madonna-like in facing that one step after the next day), the runt of the litter of seven children when Vernon and Eleanor Morse (yes, named after the former First Lady, Mrs. Roosevelt, for her kindnesses towardthe Negro people) when they had come up from Clarksville down in the Mississippi delta after hearing that Boston was the “land of milk and honey” and had landed smack dab in the recently constructed Columbia Point Housing Project over by the waters of Dorchester Bay. As so whether that was a wise or foolish decision (probably wise given hellhole Mister James Crow Mississippi goddam) the “projects” was where Lettie came of age, came of age fast, too fast.
She would not speak of her troubles adjusting, adjusting as best she could, to northern urban life, bunched up in a shared small corner room with two other pretty sisters slightly older, of the slow heavy as molasses drawl she inherited from her maternal grandmother and which drew howls of laughter at the junior high school that serviced the projects, or of the cruel ugly duckling taunts from boys (and a wayward girl or two). Like a lot of not pretty girls (and maybe pretty girls too but that is best left for another story, today we are on the rim of the world with black Madonna Lettie) she substituted being sexually available to the boys for anything else she might have felt. And they, as boys will, when the midnight whistle blows and they hear of some “easy piece” had their way with her, and then left her, left her that first time, well not exactly empty- handed, but with child, one of them anyway, and hence Christine .
Things went along okay for a while in that “projects”Morse home, she making room for her baby in her shared room, but Lettie, got a little restless as young girls will, and a boy, a not from the projects boy, took an interest in her. What she did not know was that he was selling reefer like crazy to the kids over near Uphams Corner (a school nearby the central point of sales) and eventually got busted, busted flat and sent away to reform school for a while. However, not leaving her empty-handed and thus Shana. That episode broke the camel’s back in the Morse household as fragile as it was. Lettie was unceremoniously told to pack her bags and she did. And so with two small children, no money, no home and no prospects she hit the streets, the mean streets. Lettie said to tell you no matter how bad things get, no matter how rough you think life is stay away from Mister’s streets, from his trick streets, from his walking daddy hustler’s streets, from his pimp daddy streets. She learned that lesson the hard way although she was not left empty-handed and hence Robert, father unknown, maybe unknowable.
So things kind of went downhill from there for a while, as Lettie tried to keep her little family together, tried to get off the streets, tried to get off the rim of the world, and so she landed at the Sally’ssafe house. She would stay there as long as it took for that promised apartment in the Orchard Park Housing Authority to come through. And that thought, the thought ofgetting off the rim of the world, that thought of fixing up a home, a home to keep her children safe, a home of her own kept her focused…
The original "Ten Point Program" from October, 1966 was as follows:[39][40]
1. We want freedom. We want power to determine the destiny of our black Community.
We believe that black people will not be free until we are able to determine our destiny.
2. We want full employment for our people.
We believe that the federal government is responsible and obligated to give every man employment or a guaranteed income. We believe that if the white American businessmen will not give full employment, then the means of production should be taken from the businessmen and placed in the community so that the people of the community can organize and employ all of its people and give a high standard of living.
3. We want an end to the robbery by the white man of our black Community.
We believe that this racist government has robbed us and now we are demanding the overdue debt of forty acres and two mules. Forty acres and two mules was promised 100 years ago as restitution for slave labor and mass murder of black people. We will accept the payment as currency which will be distributed to our many communities. The Germans are now aiding the Jews in Israel for the genocide of the Jewish people. The Germans murdered six million Jews. The American racist has taken part in the slaughter of over 50 million black people; therefore, we feel that this is a modest demand that we make.
4. We want decent housing, fit for shelter of human beings.
We believe that if the white landlords will not give decent housing to our black community, then the housing and the land should be made into cooperatives so that our community, with government aid, can build and make decent housing for its people.
5. We want education for our people that exposes the true nature of this decadent American society. We want education that teaches us our true history and our role in the present-day society.
We believe in an educational system that will give to our people a knowledge of self. If a man does not have knowledge of himself and his position in society and the world, then he has little chance to relate to anything else.
6. We want all black men to be exempt from military service.
We believe that black people should not be forced to fight in the military service to defend a racist government that does not protect us. We will not fight and kill other people of color in the world who, like black people, are being victimized by the white racist government of America. We will protect ourselves from the force and violence of the racist police and the racist military, by whatever means necessary.
7. We want an immediate end to POLICE BRUTALITY and MURDER of black people.
We believe we can end police brutality in our black community by organizing black self-defense groups that are dedicated to defending our black community from racist police oppression and brutality. The Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States gives a right to bear arms. We therefore believe that all black people should arm themselves for self defense.
8. We want freedom for all black men held in federal, state, county and city prisons and jails.
We believe that all black people should be released from the many jails and prisons because they have not received a fair and impartial trial.
9. We want all black people when brought to trial to be tried in court by a jury of their peer group or people from their black communities, as defined by the Constitution of the United States.
We believe that the courts should follow the United States Constitution so that black people will receive fair trials. The 14th Amendment of the U.S. Constitution gives a man a right to be tried by his peer group. A peer is a person from a similar economic, social, religious, geographical, environmental, historical and racial background. To do this the court will be forced to select a jury from the black community from which the black defendant came. We have been, and are being tried by all-white juries that have no understanding of the "average reasoning man" of the black community.
10. We want land, bread, housing, education, clothing, justice and peace. And as our major political objective, a United Nations-supervised plebiscite to be held throughout the black colony in which only black colonial subjects will be allowed to participate for the purpose of determining the will of black people as to their national destiny.
When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume, among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self- evident, that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That, to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed; that, whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly, all experience hath shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But, when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariable the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security.
