Revolutionary journalist faces lite in prison-Supporters say: FREE MUMIA NOW!
On December 7th, Philadelphia District Attorney Seth Williams announced he would no longer pursue the death penalty for Black revolutionary journalist and Pennsylvania political prisoner Mumia Abu-Jamal. This announcement comes after an October llth US Supreme Court ruling that upheld a federal appeals court decision taking, the death penalty off the table. Abu-Jamal has been transferred to State Correctional Institute Maha-noy in Frackville, PA to serve life in prison without parole.
Mumia Abu-Jamal, convicted in 1982 of the killing of a Philadelphia cop, has been on death row for 30 years. The trial was condemned by Amnesty International for failing to meet even minimal standards of fairness. That's putting things diplomatically: during the trial the judge promised he would help the prosecution 'fry the nigger/ Appeals courts have since ruled over their own precedents in order to keep Mumia in prison or on death row.
After one such precedent-trashing decision, which upheld Mumia's conviction by the same court which overturned his sentence, many of his supporters appealed to the U.S. Justice Depart-
ment and new Attorney General Eric Holder to open an investigation into the violations of Mumia's civil rights. Unsurprisingly, Holder sided with the racist corporate system which has kept Mumia in jail for so long; that is, he did nothing.
Mumia's supporters are not giving up. After all, without the hell-raising that they have done over the decades, Mumia would already be dead. They are taking the case to international arenas to embarrass the United States further and to deepen support domestically for his immediate release. As revolutionary anarchists, we endorse these efforts. Moreover, we say:
DOWN WITH THE COPS & THE COURTS!
Why?
(1)A long line of District Attorneys, beginning with former governor Ed Rendell, have made the case into political football rather than a search for truth. The current DA, Seth Williams, is merely the latest.
(2)Life in prison without parole is unacceptable. We demand the immediate release of Mumia Abu-Jamal, an innocent man. We demand his release based on the fact that he has served some 30 years in solitary confinement under a death sentence which has been found to be unconstitutional. The United Nation's Special Rapporteur on Human Rights recently stated that a period of more than 15 DAYS in solitary confinement constitutes torture.
(3)We also demand that the state cease to use prisons and the death penalty to terrorize working class and oppressed people.
(4)DA Williams should keep the promises of his predecessor, Lynn Abraham, who vowed to move to vacate any conviction based on improper evidence handling, perjury, and other abuses of justice in her own department.
As revolutionary class struggle anarchists we believe that in place of a state with its armies, cops, courts, and prison complex to enforce capitalism, people should be able to govern themselves through federations of democratic organizations. Production and work should be organized for meeting needs; the environment should be respected and sustained; and people should be judged by who they are, not by their race, gender,
or sexual orientation. To get there we advocate mass direct action, such as general strikes, boycotts, and blockades, against the capitalists and the state.
We demand Mumia be released immediately. First, we believe the ample evidence that he is innocent. Second, the capitalist state is the prime organizer of terrorism against working class and oppressed people^] ust remember the bomb it dropped on MOVE in 1985, killing 11 people and burning down an entire Philadelphia neighborhood.
Contact: The Free Mumia Abu-Jamal Coalition of New York Hotline - 212 330-8029.
The Coalition needs contributions — no amount is too small. Please send checks made out to FMAJG/IFGO to the Free Mumia Abu-Jamal Coalition, P.O. Box 16, College Sta., New York, N.Y. 10030
Check www.freemumia. com for plans to protest at the Department of Justice in Washington D.G.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
Ancient dreams, dreamed-Those Old Homesick Blues- Magical Realism 101
“Good luck, and don’t forget us, Peter Paul,” yelled John “Swifty” Sweeney as the last of the Markin household goods were placed in the moving van for the trip across town to their new digs in North Adamsville. “Don’t worry Swifty I’ll be back in a couple of days. No way as I going to leave my friends here in the projects. I didn’t want to move so I’ll be back just like nothing happened,” yelled Peter Paul right back. And that simple statement, kind of, for the moment at least, put Peter Paul’s, and his best friend Swifty’s world back in order.
Peter spoke the truth when he said that he didn’t want to move, move even from the projects that he had been moaning and groaning to get out of for years, once he realized that there was no cache, no respect and no percentage in being from that far down on the totem pole once he escaped to North Adamsville. The taste, taint, touch of the projects followed like some low-tide mud flat fetid clam swamp.
His parents had, in that hard-scramble both working crumby jobs 1950s “golden age” gathered enough dough together to get a midget house in North Adamsville where his mother, Delores, had grown up and where his grandparents had always lived. But when push came to shove and moving day arrived he went “on strike.” Tears streaming down his face he refused, utterly refused, to help load things up in boxes and crates and it was all that he could do to compose in his bravado “farewell” to his friend.
And so a few days later, boxes and crates settled in the house, unpacked mainly, although as always with moves it takes time to get everything new set up, Peter Paul got out his old Schwinn one-speed bicycle with the patented foot brake petal and started out across town to the projects like some stray lemming back to the sea, and back to the only life that he had known in his long twelve, almost thirteen years of life. He rode like the wind through the town hardly containing himself, his thoughts, and his energies to be back with the old tribe, the guys (mainly) who made project life at least bearable. And number one, numero uno, in that universe was Swifty (and had been for a while now that Billie Bradley, king hell king of the Adamsville projects night, junior division, had “stepped-up” to robbing gas stations with older guys and Peter Paul had backed off, backed way off from that scene)
Sure enough as Peter Paul headed up Captain’s Walk the central hang-out place there was Swifty hanging out with Bennie Bopper, a guy from school, a goof in a lot of ways but a guy to keep company with until something better turned up, AND Theresa Green, Peter Paul’s old crush flame goddess save-the-last-dance-for-me sitting very close, very, very close to Swifty. Peter Paul flushed and then yelled out, “She’s your girl now, I guess, Swifty.” And already feminine female Theresa soft-whispered back, “No sir, Peter Paul I am just keeping Swifty company, Benny’s my honey now, now that you’re gone.” Peter Paul flushed again, flushed that Theresa, who did not say word one when he told her his family was moving across town and flushed that Benny Bopper took his place. Although now that he had “new” eyes he could see where a girl like Theresa might go for Benny on the rebound. Good old Swifty, no way.
So that day, a week later, and a couple of weeks and a couple more times after that Peter Paul would show up and he and Swifty and Benny’s Theresa (with or without Benny) would cut up old torches. And on those days Peter Paul was happy, happy for the smells, sounds and sights of the old neighborhood, the old blessed projects.
Then one day a couple of months later Peter Paul mounted his trusty bike for another trip “home.” Damn that it would have to be a windy day, a windy day when he decided, not exactly knowing the best route, that if he travelled along the shoreline he would probably make good enough time and maybe cut across some of that wind. Now for those who must know the exact route this effort required going over the high-span Squaw River Bridge, the bridge that separated North Adamsville from Adamsville proper. Not a big bridge not a Brooklyn Bridge, Golden Gate concoction, far from it. But almost as if there was some mystery pull (or push, for that matter) to it that bridge seemed a bridge too far, an un-arched, un-steeled, un-spanned, un-nerved bridge too far.
See Peter knew that the die was cast that day, or at least he did when he had time to reflect on it later. Knew one- speed bicycle boy, dungarees rolled up against dog bites and geared meshes, churning through endless heated, sweated, no handkerchief streets, names, all the parts of ships, names, all the seven seas, names, all the fishes of the seas, names, all the fauna of the sea, names that the old home was past. That once twelve-years old, now thirteen, bicycle boy had hard churned miles to go before sleep, searching for the wombic home, for the old friends, the old drifter, grifter, midnight shifter petty larceny friends, that’s all it was, petty and maybe larceny, hard against the named ships, hard against the named seas, hard against the named fishes, hard against the named fauna, hard against the unnamed angst, hard against those changes that kind of hit one sideways all at once like some mack the knife smack devilish thing had to move on. End of story.
Peter spoke the truth when he said that he didn’t want to move, move even from the projects that he had been moaning and groaning to get out of for years, once he realized that there was no cache, no respect and no percentage in being from that far down on the totem pole once he escaped to North Adamsville. The taste, taint, touch of the projects followed like some low-tide mud flat fetid clam swamp.
His parents had, in that hard-scramble both working crumby jobs 1950s “golden age” gathered enough dough together to get a midget house in North Adamsville where his mother, Delores, had grown up and where his grandparents had always lived. But when push came to shove and moving day arrived he went “on strike.” Tears streaming down his face he refused, utterly refused, to help load things up in boxes and crates and it was all that he could do to compose in his bravado “farewell” to his friend.
And so a few days later, boxes and crates settled in the house, unpacked mainly, although as always with moves it takes time to get everything new set up, Peter Paul got out his old Schwinn one-speed bicycle with the patented foot brake petal and started out across town to the projects like some stray lemming back to the sea, and back to the only life that he had known in his long twelve, almost thirteen years of life. He rode like the wind through the town hardly containing himself, his thoughts, and his energies to be back with the old tribe, the guys (mainly) who made project life at least bearable. And number one, numero uno, in that universe was Swifty (and had been for a while now that Billie Bradley, king hell king of the Adamsville projects night, junior division, had “stepped-up” to robbing gas stations with older guys and Peter Paul had backed off, backed way off from that scene)
Sure enough as Peter Paul headed up Captain’s Walk the central hang-out place there was Swifty hanging out with Bennie Bopper, a guy from school, a goof in a lot of ways but a guy to keep company with until something better turned up, AND Theresa Green, Peter Paul’s old crush flame goddess save-the-last-dance-for-me sitting very close, very, very close to Swifty. Peter Paul flushed and then yelled out, “She’s your girl now, I guess, Swifty.” And already feminine female Theresa soft-whispered back, “No sir, Peter Paul I am just keeping Swifty company, Benny’s my honey now, now that you’re gone.” Peter Paul flushed again, flushed that Theresa, who did not say word one when he told her his family was moving across town and flushed that Benny Bopper took his place. Although now that he had “new” eyes he could see where a girl like Theresa might go for Benny on the rebound. Good old Swifty, no way.
So that day, a week later, and a couple of weeks and a couple more times after that Peter Paul would show up and he and Swifty and Benny’s Theresa (with or without Benny) would cut up old torches. And on those days Peter Paul was happy, happy for the smells, sounds and sights of the old neighborhood, the old blessed projects.
Then one day a couple of months later Peter Paul mounted his trusty bike for another trip “home.” Damn that it would have to be a windy day, a windy day when he decided, not exactly knowing the best route, that if he travelled along the shoreline he would probably make good enough time and maybe cut across some of that wind. Now for those who must know the exact route this effort required going over the high-span Squaw River Bridge, the bridge that separated North Adamsville from Adamsville proper. Not a big bridge not a Brooklyn Bridge, Golden Gate concoction, far from it. But almost as if there was some mystery pull (or push, for that matter) to it that bridge seemed a bridge too far, an un-arched, un-steeled, un-spanned, un-nerved bridge too far.
See Peter knew that the die was cast that day, or at least he did when he had time to reflect on it later. Knew one- speed bicycle boy, dungarees rolled up against dog bites and geared meshes, churning through endless heated, sweated, no handkerchief streets, names, all the parts of ships, names, all the seven seas, names, all the fishes of the seas, names, all the fauna of the sea, names that the old home was past. That once twelve-years old, now thirteen, bicycle boy had hard churned miles to go before sleep, searching for the wombic home, for the old friends, the old drifter, grifter, midnight shifter petty larceny friends, that’s all it was, petty and maybe larceny, hard against the named ships, hard against the named seas, hard against the named fishes, hard against the named fauna, hard against the unnamed angst, hard against those changes that kind of hit one sideways all at once like some mack the knife smack devilish thing had to move on. End of story.
From "Divest From War"-U.S./Allies Hands Off Iran!
Help Stop the Next WAR
Are you worried about an Israeli attack on Iran dragging the US and the entire Middle East into yet another war?
Do you feel helpless in the face of our so-called elected officials' unwillingness to stand up to the Israeli government?
What Can We Do?
The Israeli government is not worried about the US Congress or any western government. However, they are worried about grassroots boycott, divestment, and sanctions (BDS) movements that are challenging their impunity. We can use this concern to help raise the cost of an attack on Iran, and thereby help prevent the next war in the Middle East.
By signing the Divest From War Pledge, you commit to boycotting Israeli products and divesting from Israeli government bonds if Israel initiates a preemptive attack on Iran.
After you sign the pledge, be sure to spread the word nationally and internationally.
We can stop the next war, but only if we mobilize large numbers.
Some helpful new sites:
National Iranian American Council: www.niacouncil.org
Al Jazeera English: www.aliazeera.com
Interesting article on results of Pentagon Iran "war games" simulation: http://www.richardsilverstein.com/tikun ol am/2012/03/20/iran-war-game-predicts-dire-consequences-for-u-s-forces-after-israeli-attack/
Are you worried about an Israeli attack on Iran dragging the US and the entire Middle East into yet another war?
Do you feel helpless in the face of our so-called elected officials' unwillingness to stand up to the Israeli government?
What Can We Do?
The Israeli government is not worried about the US Congress or any western government. However, they are worried about grassroots boycott, divestment, and sanctions (BDS) movements that are challenging their impunity. We can use this concern to help raise the cost of an attack on Iran, and thereby help prevent the next war in the Middle East.
By signing the Divest From War Pledge, you commit to boycotting Israeli products and divesting from Israeli government bonds if Israel initiates a preemptive attack on Iran.
After you sign the pledge, be sure to spread the word nationally and internationally.
We can stop the next war, but only if we mobilize large numbers.
Some helpful new sites:
National Iranian American Council: www.niacouncil.org
Al Jazeera English: www.aliazeera.com
Interesting article on results of Pentagon Iran "war games" simulation: http://www.richardsilverstein.com/tikun ol am/2012/03/20/iran-war-game-predicts-dire-consequences-for-u-s-forces-after-israeli-attack/
Greater Boston Move to Amend-Join us as we put corporate personhood and money in politics to a public vote!-
Markin comment:
I place some material in this space which may be of interest to the radical public that I do not necessarily agree with or support. Off hand, as I have mentioned before, I think it would be easier, infinitely easier, to fight for the socialist revolution that to expect that a constitutional amendment to limit corporate influence in their capitalist system would be effective.
****************
The people will be heard!Join us as we put corporate personhood and money in politics to a public vote!
Are you disgusted with the influence of big money in politics?
Do you feel the political power of large corporations has eroded our
democracy?
Do you believe corporations should not have the same constitutional rights
as human beings?
Many of us across the state and around the country believe that we need a Constitutional amendment to restore our democracy to "We the People." Big-money campaign donations drown out the voices of the vast majority of Americans, and distort both our elections and how our legislators shape the policies that affect us. The Citizens United decision has just made a bad system much worse. We need an amendment to our Constitution to overturn Citizens United and restore the vision of government of, by and for all of us. Visit movetoamend.org for information about Move to Amend and its proposed Constitutional amendment.
We will win this amendment if we build a campaign based on a strong grassroots movement!
The time is right, and YOU can help right here, right now!
Move to Amend volunteer groups in Massachusetts have embarked on a campaign to bring public attention to the need for an amendment and enable the people to demonstrate their support for it in the voting booth. We are working to place "Public Policy Questions" on the November 2012 ballot in legislative districts around the state. Move to Amend affiliates are working with Common Cause of Massachusetts and other local, state, and national organizations.
You can download an overview of the campaign, including expected language of the proposed ballot question, at our website, gbnita.org.
To undertake this campaign in your district, we need volunteers. Will you help?
TO VOLUNTEER, or for more information, contact campaign@gbmta.org, visit gbmta.org, or call 781-894-1179.
We hope you can join us,
The volunteers of Greater Boston Move to Amend
Greater Boston MOVE to AMEND -END CORPORATE RULE. LEGALIZE DEMOCRACY.
Greater Boston Move to Amend * gbmta.org * 781-894-1179 * PO Box 540115, Waltham MA 02454
I place some material in this space which may be of interest to the radical public that I do not necessarily agree with or support. Off hand, as I have mentioned before, I think it would be easier, infinitely easier, to fight for the socialist revolution that to expect that a constitutional amendment to limit corporate influence in their capitalist system would be effective.
****************
The people will be heard!Join us as we put corporate personhood and money in politics to a public vote!
Are you disgusted with the influence of big money in politics?
Do you feel the political power of large corporations has eroded our
democracy?
Do you believe corporations should not have the same constitutional rights
as human beings?
Many of us across the state and around the country believe that we need a Constitutional amendment to restore our democracy to "We the People." Big-money campaign donations drown out the voices of the vast majority of Americans, and distort both our elections and how our legislators shape the policies that affect us. The Citizens United decision has just made a bad system much worse. We need an amendment to our Constitution to overturn Citizens United and restore the vision of government of, by and for all of us. Visit movetoamend.org for information about Move to Amend and its proposed Constitutional amendment.
We will win this amendment if we build a campaign based on a strong grassroots movement!
The time is right, and YOU can help right here, right now!
Move to Amend volunteer groups in Massachusetts have embarked on a campaign to bring public attention to the need for an amendment and enable the people to demonstrate their support for it in the voting booth. We are working to place "Public Policy Questions" on the November 2012 ballot in legislative districts around the state. Move to Amend affiliates are working with Common Cause of Massachusetts and other local, state, and national organizations.
You can download an overview of the campaign, including expected language of the proposed ballot question, at our website, gbnita.org.
To undertake this campaign in your district, we need volunteers. Will you help?
TO VOLUNTEER, or for more information, contact campaign@gbmta.org, visit gbmta.org, or call 781-894-1179.
We hope you can join us,
The volunteers of Greater Boston Move to Amend
Greater Boston MOVE to AMEND -END CORPORATE RULE. LEGALIZE DEMOCRACY.
Greater Boston Move to Amend * gbmta.org * 781-894-1179 * PO Box 540115, Waltham MA 02454
Victory To The Verizon Workers-FIGHT FOR GOOD JOBS—AND STAND UP TO CORPORATE GREED
FIGHT FOR GOOD JOBS—AND STAND UP TO CORPORATE GREED
Send a message to Verizon: Stop assaulting the middle class.
Verizon has made tens of billions in profits and its top executives walked away with $283 million in salary and bonuses in the last four years. But when it comes to the 45,000 workers who have made their success possible, Verizon cries broke.
Verizon has sent thousands of American jobs overseas and wants to outsource even more, gut pensions, charge current and retired employees thousands of dollars more for health benefits—even cut disability benefits for workers injured while doing their jobs.
It's wrong. But together we have the power to make it right.
HERE'S WHAT YOU CAN DO:
Call Congress NOW: 888-768-6167
Tell them to support the the U.S.Call Center Worker and Consumer
Protection Act (H.R. 3596)—and stop allowing companies like Verizon
to ship good jobs overseas.
Help spread the word:
Visit StopVerizonGreed.org to learn how to take action.
Don't stand by—stand up. It's time for Verizon to stop trying to destroy the-middle class.
A message from the Communications Workers of America (CWA) and International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers (IBEW).
www.StopVerizonGreed.org
Send a message to Verizon: Stop assaulting the middle class.
Verizon has made tens of billions in profits and its top executives walked away with $283 million in salary and bonuses in the last four years. But when it comes to the 45,000 workers who have made their success possible, Verizon cries broke.
Verizon has sent thousands of American jobs overseas and wants to outsource even more, gut pensions, charge current and retired employees thousands of dollars more for health benefits—even cut disability benefits for workers injured while doing their jobs.
It's wrong. But together we have the power to make it right.
HERE'S WHAT YOU CAN DO:
Call Congress NOW: 888-768-6167
Tell them to support the the U.S.Call Center Worker and Consumer
Protection Act (H.R. 3596)—and stop allowing companies like Verizon
to ship good jobs overseas.
Help spread the word:
Visit StopVerizonGreed.org to learn how to take action.
Don't stand by—stand up. It's time for Verizon to stop trying to destroy the-middle class.
A message from the Communications Workers of America (CWA) and International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers (IBEW).
www.StopVerizonGreed.org
Help Generate and Demonstrate Public Support For a Constitutional Amendment to Restore Democracy to the People-A Move to Amend Priority Campaign for 2012
Markin comment:
I place some material in this space which may be of interest to the radical public that I do not necessarily agree with or support. Off hand, as I have mentioned before, I think it would be easier, infinitely easier, to fight for the socialist revolution that to expect that a constitutional amendment to limit corporate influence in their capitalist system would be effective.
*******
The next meeting of Greater Boston Move To Amend will be April 19, 2012 at 7pm (meet for cookies at 6:30) in the YWCA's Sylvia Room, at 7 Temple Street. Central Square, Cambridge
Help Generate and Demonstrate Public Support For a Constitutional Amendment to Restore Democracy to the People
A Move to Amend Priority Campaign for 2012
In Massachusetts, voters can put what is called a "public policy question" on the state ballot in state representative and senatorial districts. Public policy questions allow voters to show legislators how a majority of voters in their district wants them to vote on an issue. While these votes do not bind the legislator, they are a concrete way to demonstrate voter "will."
Move to Amend (MTA) in Massachusetts has chosen this as a priority activity for 2012 because it enables us to educate large numbers of people and demonstrate wide public support for our goals, so that legislators will eventually vote to amend our constitution and restore our democracy.
We can decide on the number of legislative districts we want to work in, and identify the best ones for educating voters and winning strong majority votes. The strategy will be to choose districts where there is a strong volunteer group to do an effective public education campaign.
Common Cause Massachusetts has also chosen public policy questions as a priority strategy in Massachusetts, and MTA expects to work closely with them on this effort. We hope many other groups
will join in.
State Process and Timeline:
In early April, MTA and Common Cause will submit proposed language to state officials -the language that we want to appear on the ballot. They give advice as to whether it has the correct form to appear on the ballot.
By April 24, the Secretary of the Commonwealth has petition forms ready for the public.
We collect signatures from voters in any district we have chosen. Deadline for submitting signatures to the local registrars is July 3. For state rep. districts we must collect 200 valid voter signatures, therefore we should seek at least 260 signatures. For state senate districts we must
collect 1,200 valid signatures, and therefore should seek 1500-1600 signatures.
The local registrars validate the signatures and submit them to the state by August 1 (this is when we will know for sure that the question will appear on that districts ballot.)
The Secretary of the Commonwealth and Attorney General determine the final language that can go on the ballot and determine which districts have met the required signatures.
The question appears on the ballot on November 6, state and national election day, in every district that qualifies.
To see the Secretary of the Commonwealth web page on this go to: http://www.sec.state.ma.us/ele/eleguide/guidepubpol.htm
The campaign is a vital step toward winning Massachusetts' support for a constitutional amendment to defend democracy from undue corporate influence and unrestrained political spending!
We hope you are willing to participate and we want to put this question to the voters in every district where we can win.
Would you be willing to help with this ballot campaign in your district?
If you're thinking of getting involved, contact us so we can help determine the feasibility of a successful effort in your district. Write to campaign@gbmta.org.
During the campaign, we can provide materials to distribute, fact sheets to explain our goals, training for volunteers and general advice! But we will have to determine whether you have the volunteers to do a successful public education campaign in your district.
Your first step is to gather a group in your district and ask yourselves, whether you have the capability to help with:
Collecting the necessary signatures on the petition (May through July 2)
Raising some funds for materials (by August 1)
Distributing literature throughout the district (events, door to door, etc.)
Conducting a public forum or two (best in September and October)
Placing letters to the editor or other stories in local papers and media
Covering polls on voting day with handouts and signs (November 6)
Ballot Language
Move to Amend and Common Cause in Massachusetts have worked on ballot language that both groups can support and this language is what we expect to put on the ballot.
The state requires that the Public Policy question begin with: "Shall the (senator or representative) from this district be instructed to vote in favor of... " and our expected language is:
Shall the state (senator/representative) from this district he instructed to vote in favor of a resolution calling upon Congress to propose and send to the States for ratification an amendment to the U. S. Constitution stating that 1) corporations are not entitled to the constitutional rights of human beings and 2) both Congress and the States may place limitations on political contributions and political spending.
This language may slightly change upon further consultation with state officials, but we expect this to be very close to final wording.
I place some material in this space which may be of interest to the radical public that I do not necessarily agree with or support. Off hand, as I have mentioned before, I think it would be easier, infinitely easier, to fight for the socialist revolution that to expect that a constitutional amendment to limit corporate influence in their capitalist system would be effective.
*******
The next meeting of Greater Boston Move To Amend will be April 19, 2012 at 7pm (meet for cookies at 6:30) in the YWCA's Sylvia Room, at 7 Temple Street. Central Square, Cambridge
Help Generate and Demonstrate Public Support For a Constitutional Amendment to Restore Democracy to the People
A Move to Amend Priority Campaign for 2012
In Massachusetts, voters can put what is called a "public policy question" on the state ballot in state representative and senatorial districts. Public policy questions allow voters to show legislators how a majority of voters in their district wants them to vote on an issue. While these votes do not bind the legislator, they are a concrete way to demonstrate voter "will."
Move to Amend (MTA) in Massachusetts has chosen this as a priority activity for 2012 because it enables us to educate large numbers of people and demonstrate wide public support for our goals, so that legislators will eventually vote to amend our constitution and restore our democracy.
We can decide on the number of legislative districts we want to work in, and identify the best ones for educating voters and winning strong majority votes. The strategy will be to choose districts where there is a strong volunteer group to do an effective public education campaign.
Common Cause Massachusetts has also chosen public policy questions as a priority strategy in Massachusetts, and MTA expects to work closely with them on this effort. We hope many other groups
will join in.
State Process and Timeline:
In early April, MTA and Common Cause will submit proposed language to state officials -the language that we want to appear on the ballot. They give advice as to whether it has the correct form to appear on the ballot.
By April 24, the Secretary of the Commonwealth has petition forms ready for the public.
We collect signatures from voters in any district we have chosen. Deadline for submitting signatures to the local registrars is July 3. For state rep. districts we must collect 200 valid voter signatures, therefore we should seek at least 260 signatures. For state senate districts we must
collect 1,200 valid signatures, and therefore should seek 1500-1600 signatures.
The local registrars validate the signatures and submit them to the state by August 1 (this is when we will know for sure that the question will appear on that districts ballot.)
The Secretary of the Commonwealth and Attorney General determine the final language that can go on the ballot and determine which districts have met the required signatures.
The question appears on the ballot on November 6, state and national election day, in every district that qualifies.
To see the Secretary of the Commonwealth web page on this go to: http://www.sec.state.ma.us/ele/eleguide/guidepubpol.htm
The campaign is a vital step toward winning Massachusetts' support for a constitutional amendment to defend democracy from undue corporate influence and unrestrained political spending!
We hope you are willing to participate and we want to put this question to the voters in every district where we can win.
Would you be willing to help with this ballot campaign in your district?
If you're thinking of getting involved, contact us so we can help determine the feasibility of a successful effort in your district. Write to campaign@gbmta.org.
During the campaign, we can provide materials to distribute, fact sheets to explain our goals, training for volunteers and general advice! But we will have to determine whether you have the volunteers to do a successful public education campaign in your district.
Your first step is to gather a group in your district and ask yourselves, whether you have the capability to help with:
Collecting the necessary signatures on the petition (May through July 2)
Raising some funds for materials (by August 1)
Distributing literature throughout the district (events, door to door, etc.)
Conducting a public forum or two (best in September and October)
Placing letters to the editor or other stories in local papers and media
Covering polls on voting day with handouts and signs (November 6)
Ballot Language
Move to Amend and Common Cause in Massachusetts have worked on ballot language that both groups can support and this language is what we expect to put on the ballot.
The state requires that the Public Policy question begin with: "Shall the (senator or representative) from this district be instructed to vote in favor of... " and our expected language is:
Shall the state (senator/representative) from this district he instructed to vote in favor of a resolution calling upon Congress to propose and send to the States for ratification an amendment to the U. S. Constitution stating that 1) corporations are not entitled to the constitutional rights of human beings and 2) both Congress and the States may place limitations on political contributions and political spending.
This language may slightly change upon further consultation with state officials, but we expect this to be very close to final wording.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
The Old "Beat" Town, Circa 2010
Crossing the Squaw River Bridge from the Boston side these days, walking-sore-footed, ankle-ached, worn-out, scuffed leather shoes, rounded-heel shoes, soles thinned-out shoes walking-just as was almost always my mode of transportation, and maybe yours, in the old days, and sometimes for me in the not so old days-ain’t like it used to be. That new (1970s new, anyway), higher-standing , pot-holed patched, unevenly asphalt-paved even on good days, uninviting, if not just plain dangerous, walk-way, ugly slab-concreted, built by the lowest bidder, bridge that routes traffic, hither and yon, is not like the old one, “ walking to think things over friendly."
Not today, anyway, as I brace myself for a serious look see at our beat-up, beat-down, beaten-back, back-seat-taking, smudged-up, blood and sweat-stained, bitter-teared (very bitter-teared), life-drained, seen better days (although I do not, personally, remember having seen those better days, but people keep saying, even now, there was a such a time so let’s leave it at that), almost genetically memory embedded , character-building (yes, that old chestnut, as well), beautiful (yes, beautiful too, oddly, eerily beautiful, or as mad, shamanic poet Yeats, he of that that fine Anglo-Irish word edge, would put it, "terrible beauty a-borning" beautiful ), old working class home town.
It’s silly, I know, to get misty-eyed over it but I miss the old archaic pre-1970s drawbridge bridge with its ghastly-green gates to stop car traffic (how else could you describe that institutional color that no artist would have on his or her palette, and no serious professional business painter would stoop to brush on anything much less a gate) and the lonely stony-eyed concrete medieval fortress of a tower (and its poor, bored, had to be bored, keeper, or tender or whatever you call that “look out for the big boats coming and going” guy, and it was always some old guy who looked like he could swap stories, buddy to buddy, with King Neptune, and probably did) to let the bigger boats, courtesy of the law of the seas, make their way to dock.
Or, better, I hope, I fervently hope, for the boats to get clearance from that old codger, old Neptune’s brother, to race, to crawl, to putt-putt, to hoist sail or whatever such boats do to get to the open sea, the wide open blue-grey, swirling, mad, rushing, whirling dervish of a sea, out to beyond the breakwaters, out to beyond the harbor islands, to the land becoming mere speck, and then mere vanish, and more adventure than I could even dream of, or think of dreaming of. At least I hope those oil-stained, diesel-fuelled (including those awful faint-producing fumes), powerfully-engined, deep-drafted, fully–stocked boats that drove river traffic and stopped car traffic came back or went out in search of those adventures away from the placid wooden-lumbered doldrums docks up along the Adamsville side of the river.
But, one thing is for sure, whatever happened to the boats, or on them, that old bridge, that old green-gate painted monster of a drawbridge, gave you a chance to pause mid-bridge, fright-free, not-having-to-watch-your-back-for-fast-cars-caroming-by free , to look up and down midstream; to dream, perhaps, of tidal drifts and fair winds to the far reaches of this good, green planet, as far as you could carry yourself and your backpacked, bed-rolled belongings, or as long as the money held out; to bestir yourself afresh to think of oneness with the seventy-eight trillion life forms (hey, I didn’t count them, alright, this is just an estimate, a very rough estimate) that flow in the murky, and on some days very murky, depths right before your eyes down to our homeland, the sea; to dream vista dreams of far-away picture postcard cooling ports-of-call in the sweaty, sultry summer day airs or churn madly with the flow of wild summer night airs that led from the old home town west, north, south, somewhere, anywhere; to dream the dream of dreams of misspent (no way, no way misspent), suggestive, very suggestive, radio-blared Lets Spend The Night Together or The Night Time Is The Right Time, whiskey-bottle in hand (or, maybe, beer-canned if dough was tight, or way back when and you were underage if your wino buyer didn't show that night), best-gal swinging Saturday nights(quaint, okay, but we are all adults and you know what I mean) ; and, to think that one thought, that one midstream on the bridge-driven thought that would spring you from the woes of woe begotten, troubled-filled (for me, and, maybe, you) dear, (now dear, anyway) beat, ancient-ached, old timey, presidential graveyard of a growing-up home town.
This new one, this new bridge, as I stand mid-bridge and peek back to my left routes, if you can even call it that, traffic via a Daytona race track-worthy, curvy-swurvy ramp to the beach, Adamsville Beach, down the now, in places anyway, three lane-wide, freshly-paved and white-lined Adamsville Shore Drive. That’s our old Adamsville Boulevard, down by the shore everything’s alright, of sacred ashy memory. And as I watch the traffic flow, the car traffic I think not of vanilla, too bright, too light, too slight day time beach, for now, because I am flooded with visions of the “real” beach of my manic dreams- “the night time is the right time" beach. Enough of daytime, kiddish, bucket and shovel whines and childish butterfly daydreams, enough. Alright?
I just now, and you can follow along too, float dream of teenaged Saturday nights, or maybe even Friday nights, or both, cruising, nowhere, somewhere, anywhere, to the pink- blue, cloud-swollen, sun-devouring, Western night-dream skies, always just beyond our reach. Of you riding "shotgun" in your buddy’s car, a be-bop car, or, I hope, at least bop, late 1950s, and pray hard for a ’57 Chevy or something “cool” like that, borrowed from his old man, stopped at close by high school (remember), Essot gas station and filled, two-dollars-worth-of-gas-check the oil-please-filled. Or his own car, your buddy's, the old man's leavings, given gratis, when that self-same old man stepped up to a new, bigger-finned, power-steered, rumble-engined, airplane of a car, a new sign that he had “made it” in hard dollar America.
Of stolen sickly-sweet wines or breathe-soured whiskeys to ward off the night-forebodings, made sweeter or more sour by the stealing from that same old man’s, or maybe your old man's, liquor cabinet, if they had such an upscale thing, or else just from some dusty high cupboard shelf so the kids can’t get at it place. And, and, oh boy, visions of those moon-beamy, dreamy, seamy, steamy Saturday night beach parking, car-fogged, car-wrestled, “submarine races” watchings that were the subject of Monday morning boys’ rest room (okay, “lav”) roll call, recital and retailing (or, hell, probably in the girls’ room too, I bet, but the now women can tell their own tales). Whoa!
Beatified night-dreamed beach Adamsville Shore Drive also routes, now that my blood pressure has returned to normal, to daydream summer sunbathing, or maybe even before summer sunbathing for early tans to drive away the fierce, ghost-like New England winter pales, in the real sun daytime down by the weather-beaten yacht clubs (tumble-weedy, seedy, paint-needy Adamsville Yacht Club and Squaw Rock Boat Club, okay). Away, well a little away, from the early encountered mephitic sea grass marshes near the Causeway (you know where, right?-the old First National supermarket, now CVS drugs-for all occasions-store location), away from the deadened, fetid, scattered sea grasses and the muck, and in plain kid talk, away from the “stinks”, away from the tepid waves apologetically splashing on the ocean smooth-stoned dunes, away too from the jelly-fish (are they poisonous, or not?) spawning and spattered along the edges of the low tide line, and, most fervently, away, away from the oil-slicked mud flats of childish shovel and pail clam-digging adventures, clams squirting and screaming from their sand hovels that need not detain us here, that story has been told elsewhere by me, and often.
Once you have passed the fetid swamps, the mephitic marshes…, but wait a minute, who knows such un-childlike, or un-teenager-like, for that matter, words like fetid and mephitic and where, as a child, even if you knew the words, would you connect those words with pail and shovel digging to China, or some faraway place, beach; with tide-melting, furtive but fevered, sand castle-making, beach; with coolly and focused looking for treasure, somebody’s leavings, some body’s rich leavings so you think, beach; with learning about the fury of Mother Nature and the pull and push of tides first hand when old Mother (like womb mother) turns her fury on, beach; with later finger (or stick) sand-tracing of your name defying the tides to erase your brand as you fight, and fight hard, for your place in the sun (and maybe linking up your sweetie’s name, just for good measure, in that struggle with eternity), beach; with fellaheen digging for clams for fun or profit (or food for table, who knows) down at the Bay View end, beach; with family barbecue outings, hot dogs and hamburgers, extra ketchup, please, beach. With, well, beach, beach. No, fetid and mephitic will not do, I like my dreams, my child remembrance dreams, cloud puffy and silky.
This bridge, this too far bridge, this man-standing memory bridge, or however you named it, or whatever you thought of it, or wherever you were heading, destiny-heading, heading to your growing-up-like-a-weed town, heading just like a-lemming-to-the-sea town pushes the brain in a couple of directions. Heading south anyway, shore drive south, south to the rivieras, south to the old time kid’s Paragon Park. Rickety, always needed, desperately needed, fresh paint coat, landlocked, off-limits showboat bar-entranced (a gay place, before gay word existed as a social category, but what did we know then, or care, just quarters for skees, please, ah, please), ocean-aired, between-the toes-sanded, sun glass-visioned against the furious midday sun Paragon Park. Roller coaster Paragon Park (hey, maybe sick, before you got the hang of it, right), wild mouse (kid's stuff, ya I know) Paragon Park, cheap, colorful skee ball points trinket prize, sugar high, lips smacked cotton-candy, stuck to the roof of your mouth, roof of the world, salt water taffy-twisted, hot-dogged (hold the mustard, no onions), pin ball wizard’d, take your baby to the carnival feel the tunnel of love, Paragon Park.(Or later, coming of another age, the Surf, and a whole other memory bridge of dreams, not for now though.)
Or south of that south to some old time, unnamed, misty adventure, some ancient Pilgrim-etched mayflower rocky-shored adventure, some ancient forebear's praise Jehovah plainsong heard whistling through some weed-filled granite slate graveyards, not mine; mine is of shanty Irish "famine" ships and old kicked out of England convict labor, hell-hole, "hillbilly" Appalachia work the coal mines, boats. Down along that old slow as molasses, take your time, wait at every just barely red stoplight, watch out for side-glanced cop cars, two-laned, white stripped, no passing (hardly), ocean-touched (in places) road. Memory-washed, memory-etched, memory south youth road, ah.
Yes, that cotton-candy dream is enough to stir even a hardened soul, but as I shift, stiffly shift, weight on my tired old high-soled, age-qualified, age-necessary, bop-bop shoes(no more of "young" fashionista statement, skinny-soled, fire engine red Chuck Taylor’s, now of sturdy, new age, aero-flow, aero-glow, aero-know, aero-whatever, for this heavy work, this airy memory work, bop-bop shoes), I stand straight up in mid-bridge balance and veer my head to the right. That move makes me focus my mind’s eye to the heart, the soul, the guts of the old growing-up town via a narrow, straight and narrow, slit in the road, a road constructed in such a way as if to say no cuts-ups, fops (quaint, again), or oddballs wanted here, as it swerves to the edgings, the bare edgings, amidst the gathering flotsam and jetsam as it piles up on riverside old Main Street and as it meanders along like some far-removed river of its own, river of its own sorrows, river of its own pent-up angers, toward the Square.
But more than sorrows, ancient sorrows, more than angers, angers of whatever age, I am attacked, and not just in my mind’s eye either, by the myriad mirror-glassed buildings, mostly office buildings, maybe some apartments or condos but I hope not, that reflect off each other in some secret Bauhaus bright light, dead of night pact, post-post-modern architecture I am sure, functional I am sure, although when future, future generations dig up the artifacts I am also sure they will be as puzzled by the idea of such forms of shelter and commerce as I am. And beyond those future subjects of artifact a picture, a picture to feed the hungry buildings, of tactless, thoughtless pizza shop, take-out or eat-in, of whatever name, donut shop, take-out or eat-in, of whatever name, hamburger shop, take-out or eat-in, of whatever name, Applebee’s family-friendly food named, now you-name-it-for-me, please, fast-food shop, mini-mart shop, fill-up gas-station of many names, Hess named, that dot, no, deluge strip mall-heavy Main Street up pass our sanctified raider red-bled high school. And beyond to dowdy, drowsy, dusty–windowed (really, I actually touched one once, not a white glove inspection but it, the window that is, didn’t pass muster even by my liberal standards), how do they stay in business against the pull of the major chains (or their chains), small-stored, small-dreamed business ownership, Norfolk Downs.
Norfolk Downs, the good old “Downs” (although we just called it plain, old, ordinary, vanilla-flavored, one-horse Norfolk Downs back in the day) anchored still by named pizza shop, Balducci’s. Balducci’s of after school pizza slices or after night time across the street hang-around underground bowling alley hungers. Plain, please, no one hundred and one choice toppings, thank you, and coke (bluish-green bottled Coca-Cola, okay, for the evil-minded): of nickels and dimes dropped in one-armed-bandit jukebox to hear the latest Stones (or Beatles) tune, or whatever struck a chord in those jumping-jack times, maybe some mopey thing if girl desire was high; yes, but also of weary, so weary, lonely, so lonely night time standings up against the front door wall, waiting, waiting for...(and, maybe, someone, some guy, some long side-burned, engineer-booted guy, cigarette pack, unfiltered, rolled in tee-shirt guy, some time machine guy, is still waiting, still holding up that wall today. Nobody told him the world, the world that counts, the teen world, had moved to the malls). And beyond Norfolk Downs, up that asphalt river, on to the fate of a million small city centers, ghost-towned, derelict, seen better days, for sure, no question, no question, Adamsville Center.
But I find myself , just now, as a stream of cooling air, finally, finally crosses my bridge-stuck, bridge-dreamed path, not in thoughts of jumbled mist of time high school-hood Saturdays nights (nor Friday nights either) in Norfolk Downs pizza parlors or bowling alleys, but of whirling past anciently walked, shoe leather-beaten (always leather-beaten, crooked-heeled, thinning-soled shoes that could be the subject of their own separate bridge-like dream thoughts), oceaned-breezed (just like the breeze crossing over me now , ‘cause that is where it is coming from, it has to be), sharp-angled memories: some of hurt, some of high-hatted hurt, worse, a few, too few, of funny kiddish, ding-dong dumb done things (ever when too old to hide under that womb-like kiddish umbrella), the memories that is, of Atlantic tide streets, of breezing Adamsville bays, of oceans-abutted streets etched deep, almost DNA deep.
Name names. Okay. Well-trodden Appleton Street sidewalks, drawn like a moth to flame to some now-forgotten she, by flickering, heart-quickening, unrequited, just barely teenage, but self-consciously teenage anyhow, romantic trance longings, doggedly working up non-courage, yes non-courage a very common thing in those days, to speak, or better, to write that one word, that one word still now not easily come by, that would spark interest (her interest), as I turned from boy to the buddings of manhood; of the close-quartered, no space, no space for anything but small pinched, tightly pinched, dreams , no room to breathe, no room to breathe anything but small breathe, hacked up, asphalted-up, lawn-free yards to quench driveway car thirsting, two and three-decked Atlantic Street houses passed on quick high school cross country practice runs; of family relative-burdened, just getting-started in adult life, small, cramped five room and tiny bath apartment dotted Walker and Webster Streets; of the closely-cornered, well-kept small manicured-lawn’d, busily repair-worked, no beach parking on the street in summertime, working class cottage-mansions of Bayfield Road (I always forget which is North and which is South, but no matter the description fits both as they feed to the endless sea stopped by that infernal stop light that keeps you waiting, waiting beyond impatience, to cross to the much repaired and replaced seawall and view of seaward homeland.); of Adamsville North Junior High School’d (ya, I know, Middle School) teen angst (under either junior or middle school names), mad, hormonally mad, teen-brokered years, world wised-up with some twists, but also world sorry, straight-up, Hollis Avenue; and on and on, through to the beach-drained, tree-named streets. Sanctified beyond name streets all; beat, beatified streets all; mist-filled dream streets all; memory-soaked streets all; be-bop, then real gone daddy, now hip-hop, big old pie-in-the-sky looking for the universe somewhere, streets all.
But enough of old dog-eared memories let me get moving, after all with this bridge, this “new” bridge, one has to cross with purpose, serious purpose, and maybe a wing and a pray that one can get back to the old home town in one piece or, at least, be able to think that one precious thought that drove me, lemming-like, here in the first place. I walk down the broken hand-railed, dirt-piled , drift winds-sent littered steps to get off the bridge and immediately stretched before me ; one million water-logged, stubbed cigarette-butts; one thousand stray, crushed, empty, cellophaned cigarette-packages blown around seeking their rightful owners; one hundred infinite brand-named (ice cold something pictured Bud Lite seems like the winner), crushed (or at least dented) beer cans; assorted, unnumbered, brown whiskey(or were they gin) bottles, mainly cheap from the look of them, a drunkard’s feast at one time; high gloss advertisement mailings(endless CVS drugs to take your world’s pain away, Shaw’s food to curb that incurable hunger that gnaws away at your stomach, Wal-Mart back-to-school trinkets, gadgets and throw-aways when the kids find out, and find out fast, that this crap is not “cool”, K-Mart holiday bargains, three for a dollar); yellowing, dated, newspapers (local this-and-that news, distant war drum news, more war drum news from some other earth corner, bad news badder, and celebrity relief news, Lady GaGa, or some such doings, that’s the ticket for our times) strewn every which way, discarded fast food packages of all descriptions that I have no time to describe. On to the street I step, the hard-scrabble North Adamsville street. Home.
Not today, anyway, as I brace myself for a serious look see at our beat-up, beat-down, beaten-back, back-seat-taking, smudged-up, blood and sweat-stained, bitter-teared (very bitter-teared), life-drained, seen better days (although I do not, personally, remember having seen those better days, but people keep saying, even now, there was a such a time so let’s leave it at that), almost genetically memory embedded , character-building (yes, that old chestnut, as well), beautiful (yes, beautiful too, oddly, eerily beautiful, or as mad, shamanic poet Yeats, he of that that fine Anglo-Irish word edge, would put it, "terrible beauty a-borning" beautiful ), old working class home town.
It’s silly, I know, to get misty-eyed over it but I miss the old archaic pre-1970s drawbridge bridge with its ghastly-green gates to stop car traffic (how else could you describe that institutional color that no artist would have on his or her palette, and no serious professional business painter would stoop to brush on anything much less a gate) and the lonely stony-eyed concrete medieval fortress of a tower (and its poor, bored, had to be bored, keeper, or tender or whatever you call that “look out for the big boats coming and going” guy, and it was always some old guy who looked like he could swap stories, buddy to buddy, with King Neptune, and probably did) to let the bigger boats, courtesy of the law of the seas, make their way to dock.
Or, better, I hope, I fervently hope, for the boats to get clearance from that old codger, old Neptune’s brother, to race, to crawl, to putt-putt, to hoist sail or whatever such boats do to get to the open sea, the wide open blue-grey, swirling, mad, rushing, whirling dervish of a sea, out to beyond the breakwaters, out to beyond the harbor islands, to the land becoming mere speck, and then mere vanish, and more adventure than I could even dream of, or think of dreaming of. At least I hope those oil-stained, diesel-fuelled (including those awful faint-producing fumes), powerfully-engined, deep-drafted, fully–stocked boats that drove river traffic and stopped car traffic came back or went out in search of those adventures away from the placid wooden-lumbered doldrums docks up along the Adamsville side of the river.
But, one thing is for sure, whatever happened to the boats, or on them, that old bridge, that old green-gate painted monster of a drawbridge, gave you a chance to pause mid-bridge, fright-free, not-having-to-watch-your-back-for-fast-cars-caroming-by free , to look up and down midstream; to dream, perhaps, of tidal drifts and fair winds to the far reaches of this good, green planet, as far as you could carry yourself and your backpacked, bed-rolled belongings, or as long as the money held out; to bestir yourself afresh to think of oneness with the seventy-eight trillion life forms (hey, I didn’t count them, alright, this is just an estimate, a very rough estimate) that flow in the murky, and on some days very murky, depths right before your eyes down to our homeland, the sea; to dream vista dreams of far-away picture postcard cooling ports-of-call in the sweaty, sultry summer day airs or churn madly with the flow of wild summer night airs that led from the old home town west, north, south, somewhere, anywhere; to dream the dream of dreams of misspent (no way, no way misspent), suggestive, very suggestive, radio-blared Lets Spend The Night Together or The Night Time Is The Right Time, whiskey-bottle in hand (or, maybe, beer-canned if dough was tight, or way back when and you were underage if your wino buyer didn't show that night), best-gal swinging Saturday nights(quaint, okay, but we are all adults and you know what I mean) ; and, to think that one thought, that one midstream on the bridge-driven thought that would spring you from the woes of woe begotten, troubled-filled (for me, and, maybe, you) dear, (now dear, anyway) beat, ancient-ached, old timey, presidential graveyard of a growing-up home town.
This new one, this new bridge, as I stand mid-bridge and peek back to my left routes, if you can even call it that, traffic via a Daytona race track-worthy, curvy-swurvy ramp to the beach, Adamsville Beach, down the now, in places anyway, three lane-wide, freshly-paved and white-lined Adamsville Shore Drive. That’s our old Adamsville Boulevard, down by the shore everything’s alright, of sacred ashy memory. And as I watch the traffic flow, the car traffic I think not of vanilla, too bright, too light, too slight day time beach, for now, because I am flooded with visions of the “real” beach of my manic dreams- “the night time is the right time" beach. Enough of daytime, kiddish, bucket and shovel whines and childish butterfly daydreams, enough. Alright?
I just now, and you can follow along too, float dream of teenaged Saturday nights, or maybe even Friday nights, or both, cruising, nowhere, somewhere, anywhere, to the pink- blue, cloud-swollen, sun-devouring, Western night-dream skies, always just beyond our reach. Of you riding "shotgun" in your buddy’s car, a be-bop car, or, I hope, at least bop, late 1950s, and pray hard for a ’57 Chevy or something “cool” like that, borrowed from his old man, stopped at close by high school (remember), Essot gas station and filled, two-dollars-worth-of-gas-check the oil-please-filled. Or his own car, your buddy's, the old man's leavings, given gratis, when that self-same old man stepped up to a new, bigger-finned, power-steered, rumble-engined, airplane of a car, a new sign that he had “made it” in hard dollar America.
Of stolen sickly-sweet wines or breathe-soured whiskeys to ward off the night-forebodings, made sweeter or more sour by the stealing from that same old man’s, or maybe your old man's, liquor cabinet, if they had such an upscale thing, or else just from some dusty high cupboard shelf so the kids can’t get at it place. And, and, oh boy, visions of those moon-beamy, dreamy, seamy, steamy Saturday night beach parking, car-fogged, car-wrestled, “submarine races” watchings that were the subject of Monday morning boys’ rest room (okay, “lav”) roll call, recital and retailing (or, hell, probably in the girls’ room too, I bet, but the now women can tell their own tales). Whoa!
Beatified night-dreamed beach Adamsville Shore Drive also routes, now that my blood pressure has returned to normal, to daydream summer sunbathing, or maybe even before summer sunbathing for early tans to drive away the fierce, ghost-like New England winter pales, in the real sun daytime down by the weather-beaten yacht clubs (tumble-weedy, seedy, paint-needy Adamsville Yacht Club and Squaw Rock Boat Club, okay). Away, well a little away, from the early encountered mephitic sea grass marshes near the Causeway (you know where, right?-the old First National supermarket, now CVS drugs-for all occasions-store location), away from the deadened, fetid, scattered sea grasses and the muck, and in plain kid talk, away from the “stinks”, away from the tepid waves apologetically splashing on the ocean smooth-stoned dunes, away too from the jelly-fish (are they poisonous, or not?) spawning and spattered along the edges of the low tide line, and, most fervently, away, away from the oil-slicked mud flats of childish shovel and pail clam-digging adventures, clams squirting and screaming from their sand hovels that need not detain us here, that story has been told elsewhere by me, and often.
Once you have passed the fetid swamps, the mephitic marshes…, but wait a minute, who knows such un-childlike, or un-teenager-like, for that matter, words like fetid and mephitic and where, as a child, even if you knew the words, would you connect those words with pail and shovel digging to China, or some faraway place, beach; with tide-melting, furtive but fevered, sand castle-making, beach; with coolly and focused looking for treasure, somebody’s leavings, some body’s rich leavings so you think, beach; with learning about the fury of Mother Nature and the pull and push of tides first hand when old Mother (like womb mother) turns her fury on, beach; with later finger (or stick) sand-tracing of your name defying the tides to erase your brand as you fight, and fight hard, for your place in the sun (and maybe linking up your sweetie’s name, just for good measure, in that struggle with eternity), beach; with fellaheen digging for clams for fun or profit (or food for table, who knows) down at the Bay View end, beach; with family barbecue outings, hot dogs and hamburgers, extra ketchup, please, beach. With, well, beach, beach. No, fetid and mephitic will not do, I like my dreams, my child remembrance dreams, cloud puffy and silky.
This bridge, this too far bridge, this man-standing memory bridge, or however you named it, or whatever you thought of it, or wherever you were heading, destiny-heading, heading to your growing-up-like-a-weed town, heading just like a-lemming-to-the-sea town pushes the brain in a couple of directions. Heading south anyway, shore drive south, south to the rivieras, south to the old time kid’s Paragon Park. Rickety, always needed, desperately needed, fresh paint coat, landlocked, off-limits showboat bar-entranced (a gay place, before gay word existed as a social category, but what did we know then, or care, just quarters for skees, please, ah, please), ocean-aired, between-the toes-sanded, sun glass-visioned against the furious midday sun Paragon Park. Roller coaster Paragon Park (hey, maybe sick, before you got the hang of it, right), wild mouse (kid's stuff, ya I know) Paragon Park, cheap, colorful skee ball points trinket prize, sugar high, lips smacked cotton-candy, stuck to the roof of your mouth, roof of the world, salt water taffy-twisted, hot-dogged (hold the mustard, no onions), pin ball wizard’d, take your baby to the carnival feel the tunnel of love, Paragon Park.(Or later, coming of another age, the Surf, and a whole other memory bridge of dreams, not for now though.)
Or south of that south to some old time, unnamed, misty adventure, some ancient Pilgrim-etched mayflower rocky-shored adventure, some ancient forebear's praise Jehovah plainsong heard whistling through some weed-filled granite slate graveyards, not mine; mine is of shanty Irish "famine" ships and old kicked out of England convict labor, hell-hole, "hillbilly" Appalachia work the coal mines, boats. Down along that old slow as molasses, take your time, wait at every just barely red stoplight, watch out for side-glanced cop cars, two-laned, white stripped, no passing (hardly), ocean-touched (in places) road. Memory-washed, memory-etched, memory south youth road, ah.
Yes, that cotton-candy dream is enough to stir even a hardened soul, but as I shift, stiffly shift, weight on my tired old high-soled, age-qualified, age-necessary, bop-bop shoes(no more of "young" fashionista statement, skinny-soled, fire engine red Chuck Taylor’s, now of sturdy, new age, aero-flow, aero-glow, aero-know, aero-whatever, for this heavy work, this airy memory work, bop-bop shoes), I stand straight up in mid-bridge balance and veer my head to the right. That move makes me focus my mind’s eye to the heart, the soul, the guts of the old growing-up town via a narrow, straight and narrow, slit in the road, a road constructed in such a way as if to say no cuts-ups, fops (quaint, again), or oddballs wanted here, as it swerves to the edgings, the bare edgings, amidst the gathering flotsam and jetsam as it piles up on riverside old Main Street and as it meanders along like some far-removed river of its own, river of its own sorrows, river of its own pent-up angers, toward the Square.
But more than sorrows, ancient sorrows, more than angers, angers of whatever age, I am attacked, and not just in my mind’s eye either, by the myriad mirror-glassed buildings, mostly office buildings, maybe some apartments or condos but I hope not, that reflect off each other in some secret Bauhaus bright light, dead of night pact, post-post-modern architecture I am sure, functional I am sure, although when future, future generations dig up the artifacts I am also sure they will be as puzzled by the idea of such forms of shelter and commerce as I am. And beyond those future subjects of artifact a picture, a picture to feed the hungry buildings, of tactless, thoughtless pizza shop, take-out or eat-in, of whatever name, donut shop, take-out or eat-in, of whatever name, hamburger shop, take-out or eat-in, of whatever name, Applebee’s family-friendly food named, now you-name-it-for-me, please, fast-food shop, mini-mart shop, fill-up gas-station of many names, Hess named, that dot, no, deluge strip mall-heavy Main Street up pass our sanctified raider red-bled high school. And beyond to dowdy, drowsy, dusty–windowed (really, I actually touched one once, not a white glove inspection but it, the window that is, didn’t pass muster even by my liberal standards), how do they stay in business against the pull of the major chains (or their chains), small-stored, small-dreamed business ownership, Norfolk Downs.
Norfolk Downs, the good old “Downs” (although we just called it plain, old, ordinary, vanilla-flavored, one-horse Norfolk Downs back in the day) anchored still by named pizza shop, Balducci’s. Balducci’s of after school pizza slices or after night time across the street hang-around underground bowling alley hungers. Plain, please, no one hundred and one choice toppings, thank you, and coke (bluish-green bottled Coca-Cola, okay, for the evil-minded): of nickels and dimes dropped in one-armed-bandit jukebox to hear the latest Stones (or Beatles) tune, or whatever struck a chord in those jumping-jack times, maybe some mopey thing if girl desire was high; yes, but also of weary, so weary, lonely, so lonely night time standings up against the front door wall, waiting, waiting for...(and, maybe, someone, some guy, some long side-burned, engineer-booted guy, cigarette pack, unfiltered, rolled in tee-shirt guy, some time machine guy, is still waiting, still holding up that wall today. Nobody told him the world, the world that counts, the teen world, had moved to the malls). And beyond Norfolk Downs, up that asphalt river, on to the fate of a million small city centers, ghost-towned, derelict, seen better days, for sure, no question, no question, Adamsville Center.
But I find myself , just now, as a stream of cooling air, finally, finally crosses my bridge-stuck, bridge-dreamed path, not in thoughts of jumbled mist of time high school-hood Saturdays nights (nor Friday nights either) in Norfolk Downs pizza parlors or bowling alleys, but of whirling past anciently walked, shoe leather-beaten (always leather-beaten, crooked-heeled, thinning-soled shoes that could be the subject of their own separate bridge-like dream thoughts), oceaned-breezed (just like the breeze crossing over me now , ‘cause that is where it is coming from, it has to be), sharp-angled memories: some of hurt, some of high-hatted hurt, worse, a few, too few, of funny kiddish, ding-dong dumb done things (ever when too old to hide under that womb-like kiddish umbrella), the memories that is, of Atlantic tide streets, of breezing Adamsville bays, of oceans-abutted streets etched deep, almost DNA deep.
Name names. Okay. Well-trodden Appleton Street sidewalks, drawn like a moth to flame to some now-forgotten she, by flickering, heart-quickening, unrequited, just barely teenage, but self-consciously teenage anyhow, romantic trance longings, doggedly working up non-courage, yes non-courage a very common thing in those days, to speak, or better, to write that one word, that one word still now not easily come by, that would spark interest (her interest), as I turned from boy to the buddings of manhood; of the close-quartered, no space, no space for anything but small pinched, tightly pinched, dreams , no room to breathe, no room to breathe anything but small breathe, hacked up, asphalted-up, lawn-free yards to quench driveway car thirsting, two and three-decked Atlantic Street houses passed on quick high school cross country practice runs; of family relative-burdened, just getting-started in adult life, small, cramped five room and tiny bath apartment dotted Walker and Webster Streets; of the closely-cornered, well-kept small manicured-lawn’d, busily repair-worked, no beach parking on the street in summertime, working class cottage-mansions of Bayfield Road (I always forget which is North and which is South, but no matter the description fits both as they feed to the endless sea stopped by that infernal stop light that keeps you waiting, waiting beyond impatience, to cross to the much repaired and replaced seawall and view of seaward homeland.); of Adamsville North Junior High School’d (ya, I know, Middle School) teen angst (under either junior or middle school names), mad, hormonally mad, teen-brokered years, world wised-up with some twists, but also world sorry, straight-up, Hollis Avenue; and on and on, through to the beach-drained, tree-named streets. Sanctified beyond name streets all; beat, beatified streets all; mist-filled dream streets all; memory-soaked streets all; be-bop, then real gone daddy, now hip-hop, big old pie-in-the-sky looking for the universe somewhere, streets all.
But enough of old dog-eared memories let me get moving, after all with this bridge, this “new” bridge, one has to cross with purpose, serious purpose, and maybe a wing and a pray that one can get back to the old home town in one piece or, at least, be able to think that one precious thought that drove me, lemming-like, here in the first place. I walk down the broken hand-railed, dirt-piled , drift winds-sent littered steps to get off the bridge and immediately stretched before me ; one million water-logged, stubbed cigarette-butts; one thousand stray, crushed, empty, cellophaned cigarette-packages blown around seeking their rightful owners; one hundred infinite brand-named (ice cold something pictured Bud Lite seems like the winner), crushed (or at least dented) beer cans; assorted, unnumbered, brown whiskey(or were they gin) bottles, mainly cheap from the look of them, a drunkard’s feast at one time; high gloss advertisement mailings(endless CVS drugs to take your world’s pain away, Shaw’s food to curb that incurable hunger that gnaws away at your stomach, Wal-Mart back-to-school trinkets, gadgets and throw-aways when the kids find out, and find out fast, that this crap is not “cool”, K-Mart holiday bargains, three for a dollar); yellowing, dated, newspapers (local this-and-that news, distant war drum news, more war drum news from some other earth corner, bad news badder, and celebrity relief news, Lady GaGa, or some such doings, that’s the ticket for our times) strewn every which way, discarded fast food packages of all descriptions that I have no time to describe. On to the street I step, the hard-scrabble North Adamsville street. Home.
Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning During The Week Of April 23-29 In The Boston Area-Why I Will Be Standing With Private Manning On Friday April 27th In Davis Square, Somerville And Saturday April 28th At Park Street Station In Boston
Click on the headline to link to the Private Bradley Manning Support Network for the latest information on his case and activities on his behalf .
We of the anti-war movement were not able to do much to affect the Bush- Obama Iraq War timetable but we can save the one hero of that war, Bradley Manning.
According to the Private Bradley Manning Support Network there are a series of actions planned in Washington, D.C at the Justice Department on April 24th and at Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th and 26th in connection with the next round of legal proceedings in his case. I had originally intended to travel down from Boston to take part in those events that week but some other obligations now prevent me from doing so. Nevertheless there two on-going activities in the Boston area where those of us who support freedom for Bradley Manning can show our solidarity during that week.
Every Friday from 1:00 -2:00 PM there is an on-going solidarity vigil for Brother Manning at the Davis Square Redline MBTA stop in Davis Square, Somerville.
Every Saturday from 1:00-2:00 PM there is an on-going peace vigil/speak-out in our struggle against the war (or wars) of the moment being orchestrated by the American government and its allies at the Redline MBTA Park Street Station in Boston (Boston Common). Bradley Manning’s case is a natural extension of those struggles.
Please plan to attend either or both of these events on Friday April 28th (Davis Square) and/or Saturday April 29th (Park Street) to stand in solidarity with Bradley Manning. I have included my original comment made when I had expected to go down to the Washington/Fort Meade events as motivation for you to stand with Bradley on those days here in Boston.
*************
Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Fort Meade Maryland On Wednesday April 25th At 8:00 AM - A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner
Markin comment:
Last year (2011) I wrote a little entry in this space in order to motivate my reasons for standing in solidarity with a March 20th rally in support of Private Bradley Manning at the Quantico Marine Base in Virginia where he was then being held. I have subsequently repeatedly used that entry, Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Quantico, Virginia On Sunday March 20th At 2:00 PM- A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner, as a I have tried to publicize his case in blogs and other Internet sources, at various rallies, and at marches, most recently at the Veterans For Peace Saint Patrick’s Day Peace Parade in South Boston on March 18th.
After I received information from the Bradley Manning Support Network about the latest efforts on Private Manning’s behalf scheduled for April 24th and 25th in Washington and Fort Meade respectively I decided that I would travel south to stand once again in proximate solidarity with Brother Manning at Fort Meade on April 25th. In that spirit I have updated, a little, that earlier entry to reflect the changed circumstances over the past year. As one would expect when the cause is still the same, Bradley Manning's freedom, unfortunately most of the entry is still in the same key. And will be until the day he is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Brother Manning until that great day.
*****
Of course I will be standing at the front gate to the Fort Meade , Maryland on April 25th because I stand in solidarity with the actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious doings of this government, Bush-like or Obamian. If he did such acts they are no crime. No crime at all in my eyes or in the eyes of the vast majority of people who know of the case and of its importance as an individual act of resistance to the unjust and barbaric American-led war in Iraq. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning (or someone) exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justification rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.
Of course I will also be standing at the front gate of Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th because I am outraged by the treatment meted out to Private Manning, presumably an innocent man, by a government who alleges itself to be some “beacon” of the civilized world. Bradley Manning had been held in solidarity at Quantico and other locales for over 500 days, and has been held without trial for much longer, as the government and its military try to glue a case together. The military, and its henchmen in the Justice Department, have gotten more devious although not smarter since I was a soldier in their crosshairs over forty years ago.
Now the two reasons above are more than sufficient for my standing at the front gate at Fort Meade on April 25th although they, in themselves, are only the appropriate reasons that any progressive thinking person would need to show up and shout to the high heavens for Private Manning’s freedom. I have an additional reason though, a very pressing personal reason. As mentioned above I too was in the military’s crosshairs as a citizen-soldier during the height of the Vietnam War. I will not go into the details of that episode, this comment after all is about brother soldier Manning, other than that I spent my own time in an Army stockade for, let’s put it this way, working on the principle of “what if they gave a war and nobody came”.
Forty years later I am still working off that principle, and gladly. But here is the real point. During that time I had outside support, outside civilian support, that rallied on several occasions outside the military base where I was confined. Believe me that knowledge helped me get through the tough days inside. So on April 25th I will be just, once again, as I have been able to on too few other occasions over years, paying my dues for that long ago support. You, Brother Manning, are a true winter soldier. We were not able to do much about the course of the Iraq War (and little thus far on Afghanistan) but we can move might and main to save the one real hero of that whole mess.
Private Manning I hope that you will hear us and hear about our rally in your defense outside the gates. Better yet, everybody who reads this piece join us and make sure that he can hear us loud and clear. And let us shout to high heaven against this gross injustice-Free Private Bradley Manning Now!
We of the anti-war movement were not able to do much to affect the Bush- Obama Iraq War timetable but we can save the one hero of that war, Bradley Manning.
According to the Private Bradley Manning Support Network there are a series of actions planned in Washington, D.C at the Justice Department on April 24th and at Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th and 26th in connection with the next round of legal proceedings in his case. I had originally intended to travel down from Boston to take part in those events that week but some other obligations now prevent me from doing so. Nevertheless there two on-going activities in the Boston area where those of us who support freedom for Bradley Manning can show our solidarity during that week.
Every Friday from 1:00 -2:00 PM there is an on-going solidarity vigil for Brother Manning at the Davis Square Redline MBTA stop in Davis Square, Somerville.
Every Saturday from 1:00-2:00 PM there is an on-going peace vigil/speak-out in our struggle against the war (or wars) of the moment being orchestrated by the American government and its allies at the Redline MBTA Park Street Station in Boston (Boston Common). Bradley Manning’s case is a natural extension of those struggles.
Please plan to attend either or both of these events on Friday April 28th (Davis Square) and/or Saturday April 29th (Park Street) to stand in solidarity with Bradley Manning. I have included my original comment made when I had expected to go down to the Washington/Fort Meade events as motivation for you to stand with Bradley on those days here in Boston.
*************
Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Fort Meade Maryland On Wednesday April 25th At 8:00 AM - A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner
Markin comment:
Last year (2011) I wrote a little entry in this space in order to motivate my reasons for standing in solidarity with a March 20th rally in support of Private Bradley Manning at the Quantico Marine Base in Virginia where he was then being held. I have subsequently repeatedly used that entry, Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Quantico, Virginia On Sunday March 20th At 2:00 PM- A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner, as a I have tried to publicize his case in blogs and other Internet sources, at various rallies, and at marches, most recently at the Veterans For Peace Saint Patrick’s Day Peace Parade in South Boston on March 18th.
After I received information from the Bradley Manning Support Network about the latest efforts on Private Manning’s behalf scheduled for April 24th and 25th in Washington and Fort Meade respectively I decided that I would travel south to stand once again in proximate solidarity with Brother Manning at Fort Meade on April 25th. In that spirit I have updated, a little, that earlier entry to reflect the changed circumstances over the past year. As one would expect when the cause is still the same, Bradley Manning's freedom, unfortunately most of the entry is still in the same key. And will be until the day he is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Brother Manning until that great day.
*****
Of course I will be standing at the front gate to the Fort Meade , Maryland on April 25th because I stand in solidarity with the actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious doings of this government, Bush-like or Obamian. If he did such acts they are no crime. No crime at all in my eyes or in the eyes of the vast majority of people who know of the case and of its importance as an individual act of resistance to the unjust and barbaric American-led war in Iraq. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning (or someone) exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justification rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.
Of course I will also be standing at the front gate of Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th because I am outraged by the treatment meted out to Private Manning, presumably an innocent man, by a government who alleges itself to be some “beacon” of the civilized world. Bradley Manning had been held in solidarity at Quantico and other locales for over 500 days, and has been held without trial for much longer, as the government and its military try to glue a case together. The military, and its henchmen in the Justice Department, have gotten more devious although not smarter since I was a soldier in their crosshairs over forty years ago.
Now the two reasons above are more than sufficient for my standing at the front gate at Fort Meade on April 25th although they, in themselves, are only the appropriate reasons that any progressive thinking person would need to show up and shout to the high heavens for Private Manning’s freedom. I have an additional reason though, a very pressing personal reason. As mentioned above I too was in the military’s crosshairs as a citizen-soldier during the height of the Vietnam War. I will not go into the details of that episode, this comment after all is about brother soldier Manning, other than that I spent my own time in an Army stockade for, let’s put it this way, working on the principle of “what if they gave a war and nobody came”.
Forty years later I am still working off that principle, and gladly. But here is the real point. During that time I had outside support, outside civilian support, that rallied on several occasions outside the military base where I was confined. Believe me that knowledge helped me get through the tough days inside. So on April 25th I will be just, once again, as I have been able to on too few other occasions over years, paying my dues for that long ago support. You, Brother Manning, are a true winter soldier. We were not able to do much about the course of the Iraq War (and little thus far on Afghanistan) but we can move might and main to save the one real hero of that whole mess.
Private Manning I hope that you will hear us and hear about our rally in your defense outside the gates. Better yet, everybody who reads this piece join us and make sure that he can hear us loud and clear. And let us shout to high heaven against this gross injustice-Free Private Bradley Manning Now!
Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning During The Week Of April 23-29 In The Boston Area-Why I Will Be Standing With Private Manning On Friday April 27th In Davis Square, Somerville And Saturday April 28th At Park Street Station In Boston
Click on the headline to link to the Private Bradley Manning Support Network for the latest information on his case and activities on his behalf .
We of the anti-war movement were not able to do much to affect the Bush- Obama Iraq War timetable but we can save the one hero of that war, Bradley Manning.
According to the Private Bradley Manning Support Network there are a series of actions planned in Washington, D.C at the Justice Department on April 24th and at Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th and 26th in connection with the next round of legal proceedings in his case. I had originally intended to travel down from Boston to take part in those events that week but some other obligations now prevent me from doing so. Nevertheless there two on-going activities in the Boston area where those of us who support freedom for Bradley Manning can show our solidarity during that week.
Every Friday from 1:00 -2:00 PM there is an on-going solidarity vigil for Brother Manning at the Davis Square Redline MBTA stop in Davis Square, Somerville.
Every Saturday from 1:00-2:00 PM there is an on-going peace vigil/speak-out in our struggle against the war (or wars) of the moment being orchestrated by the American government and its allies at the Redline MBTA Park Street Station in Boston (Boston Common). Bradley Manning’s case is a natural extension of those struggles.
Please plan to attend either or both of these events on Friday April 28th (Davis Square) and/or Saturday April 29th (Park Street) to stand in solidarity with Bradley Manning. I have included my original comment made when I had expected to go down to the Washington/Fort Meade events as motivation for you to stand with Bradley on those days here in Boston.
*************
Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Fort Meade Maryland On Wednesday April 25th At 8:00 AM - A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner
Markin comment:
Last year (2011) I wrote a little entry in this space in order to motivate my reasons for standing in solidarity with a March 20th rally in support of Private Bradley Manning at the Quantico Marine Base in Virginia where he was then being held. I have subsequently repeatedly used that entry, Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Quantico, Virginia On Sunday March 20th At 2:00 PM- A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner, as a I have tried to publicize his case in blogs and other Internet sources, at various rallies, and at marches, most recently at the Veterans For Peace Saint Patrick’s Day Peace Parade in South Boston on March 18th.
After I received information from the Bradley Manning Support Network about the latest efforts on Private Manning’s behalf scheduled for April 24th and 25th in Washington and Fort Meade respectively I decided that I would travel south to stand once again in proximate solidarity with Brother Manning at Fort Meade on April 25th. In that spirit I have updated, a little, that earlier entry to reflect the changed circumstances over the past year. As one would expect when the cause is still the same, Bradley Manning's freedom, unfortunately most of the entry is still in the same key. And will be until the day he is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Brother Manning until that great day.
*****
Of course I will be standing at the front gate to the Fort Meade , Maryland on April 25th because I stand in solidarity with the actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious doings of this government, Bush-like or Obamian. If he did such acts they are no crime. No crime at all in my eyes or in the eyes of the vast majority of people who know of the case and of its importance as an individual act of resistance to the unjust and barbaric American-led war in Iraq. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning (or someone) exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justification rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.
Of course I will also be standing at the front gate of Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th because I am outraged by the treatment meted out to Private Manning, presumably an innocent man, by a government who alleges itself to be some “beacon” of the civilized world. Bradley Manning had been held in solidarity at Quantico and other locales for over 500 days, and has been held without trial for much longer, as the government and its military try to glue a case together. The military, and its henchmen in the Justice Department, have gotten more devious although not smarter since I was a soldier in their crosshairs over forty years ago.
Now the two reasons above are more than sufficient for my standing at the front gate at Fort Meade on April 25th although they, in themselves, are only the appropriate reasons that any progressive thinking person would need to show up and shout to the high heavens for Private Manning’s freedom. I have an additional reason though, a very pressing personal reason. As mentioned above I too was in the military’s crosshairs as a citizen-soldier during the height of the Vietnam War. I will not go into the details of that episode, this comment after all is about brother soldier Manning, other than that I spent my own time in an Army stockade for, let’s put it this way, working on the principle of “what if they gave a war and nobody came”.
Forty years later I am still working off that principle, and gladly. But here is the real point. During that time I had outside support, outside civilian support, that rallied on several occasions outside the military base where I was confined. Believe me that knowledge helped me get through the tough days inside. So on April 25th I will be just, once again, as I have been able to on too few other occasions over years, paying my dues for that long ago support. You, Brother Manning, are a true winter soldier. We were not able to do much about the course of the Iraq War (and little thus far on Afghanistan) but we can move might and main to save the one real hero of that whole mess.
Private Manning I hope that you will hear us and hear about our rally in your defense outside the gates. Better yet, everybody who reads this piece join us and make sure that he can hear us loud and clear. And let us shout to high heaven against this gross injustice-Free Private Bradley Manning Now!
An injury to one is an injury to all, ANTI-IMPERIALISM, anti-militarism, frees all class-war prisoners, free Bradley manning, PARTISAN DEFENSE COMMITTEE
We of the anti-war movement were not able to do much to affect the Bush- Obama Iraq War timetable but we can save the one hero of that war, Bradley Manning.
According to the Private Bradley Manning Support Network there are a series of actions planned in Washington, D.C at the Justice Department on April 24th and at Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th and 26th in connection with the next round of legal proceedings in his case. I had originally intended to travel down from Boston to take part in those events that week but some other obligations now prevent me from doing so. Nevertheless there two on-going activities in the Boston area where those of us who support freedom for Bradley Manning can show our solidarity during that week.
Every Friday from 1:00 -2:00 PM there is an on-going solidarity vigil for Brother Manning at the Davis Square Redline MBTA stop in Davis Square, Somerville.
Every Saturday from 1:00-2:00 PM there is an on-going peace vigil/speak-out in our struggle against the war (or wars) of the moment being orchestrated by the American government and its allies at the Redline MBTA Park Street Station in Boston (Boston Common). Bradley Manning’s case is a natural extension of those struggles.
Please plan to attend either or both of these events on Friday April 28th (Davis Square) and/or Saturday April 29th (Park Street) to stand in solidarity with Bradley Manning. I have included my original comment made when I had expected to go down to the Washington/Fort Meade events as motivation for you to stand with Bradley on those days here in Boston.
*************
Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Fort Meade Maryland On Wednesday April 25th At 8:00 AM - A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner
Markin comment:
Last year (2011) I wrote a little entry in this space in order to motivate my reasons for standing in solidarity with a March 20th rally in support of Private Bradley Manning at the Quantico Marine Base in Virginia where he was then being held. I have subsequently repeatedly used that entry, Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Quantico, Virginia On Sunday March 20th At 2:00 PM- A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner, as a I have tried to publicize his case in blogs and other Internet sources, at various rallies, and at marches, most recently at the Veterans For Peace Saint Patrick’s Day Peace Parade in South Boston on March 18th.
After I received information from the Bradley Manning Support Network about the latest efforts on Private Manning’s behalf scheduled for April 24th and 25th in Washington and Fort Meade respectively I decided that I would travel south to stand once again in proximate solidarity with Brother Manning at Fort Meade on April 25th. In that spirit I have updated, a little, that earlier entry to reflect the changed circumstances over the past year. As one would expect when the cause is still the same, Bradley Manning's freedom, unfortunately most of the entry is still in the same key. And will be until the day he is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Brother Manning until that great day.
*****
Of course I will be standing at the front gate to the Fort Meade , Maryland on April 25th because I stand in solidarity with the actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious doings of this government, Bush-like or Obamian. If he did such acts they are no crime. No crime at all in my eyes or in the eyes of the vast majority of people who know of the case and of its importance as an individual act of resistance to the unjust and barbaric American-led war in Iraq. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning (or someone) exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justification rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.
Of course I will also be standing at the front gate of Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th because I am outraged by the treatment meted out to Private Manning, presumably an innocent man, by a government who alleges itself to be some “beacon” of the civilized world. Bradley Manning had been held in solidarity at Quantico and other locales for over 500 days, and has been held without trial for much longer, as the government and its military try to glue a case together. The military, and its henchmen in the Justice Department, have gotten more devious although not smarter since I was a soldier in their crosshairs over forty years ago.
Now the two reasons above are more than sufficient for my standing at the front gate at Fort Meade on April 25th although they, in themselves, are only the appropriate reasons that any progressive thinking person would need to show up and shout to the high heavens for Private Manning’s freedom. I have an additional reason though, a very pressing personal reason. As mentioned above I too was in the military’s crosshairs as a citizen-soldier during the height of the Vietnam War. I will not go into the details of that episode, this comment after all is about brother soldier Manning, other than that I spent my own time in an Army stockade for, let’s put it this way, working on the principle of “what if they gave a war and nobody came”.
Forty years later I am still working off that principle, and gladly. But here is the real point. During that time I had outside support, outside civilian support, that rallied on several occasions outside the military base where I was confined. Believe me that knowledge helped me get through the tough days inside. So on April 25th I will be just, once again, as I have been able to on too few other occasions over years, paying my dues for that long ago support. You, Brother Manning, are a true winter soldier. We were not able to do much about the course of the Iraq War (and little thus far on Afghanistan) but we can move might and main to save the one real hero of that whole mess.
Private Manning I hope that you will hear us and hear about our rally in your defense outside the gates. Better yet, everybody who reads this piece join us and make sure that he can hear us loud and clear. And let us shout to high heaven against this gross injustice-Free Private Bradley Manning Now!
An injury to one is an injury to all, ANTI-IMPERIALISM, anti-militarism, frees all class-war prisoners, free Bradley manning, PARTISAN DEFENSE COMMITTEE
From The Archives Of The Class Struggle-5th ANNUAL NEW ENGLAND SOCIALIST CONFERENCE
5th ANNUAL NEW ENGLAND SOCIALIST CONFERENCE
APRIL 14TH -15TH (SATURDAY AND SUNDAY)
@ The Democracy Center
45 Mount Auburn St Harvard Sq, a short walk from the T
FEATURING- Saturday, April 14th (Day 1)
10am to 11:30-Rally/Forum -
"We Won't Pay for Their Crisis"
11:30 to 12:30-Workshops:
Lessons of Wisconsin Book Launch
Dismantling Sexist Culture
Youth Fight for Jobs
Marxism and Anarchism
12:30 to 1:30-Lunch
1:30 to 2:30-Forum - Independent Left Politics 2:30 to 3:30-Workshops:
Racism, Prisons and Police Brutality
Consumer Activism: Does "Move your money" really work?
Harvard No Layoffs Campaign
Environment
3:30 to 5pm- International Struggles Forum: Featuring Greek, Nigerian and English speakers.
Sunday, April 15th (Day 2)
12 noon to 1 pm-Socialism Frequently Asked Questions
1 pm to 3pm-DISCUSSION on with PDA: "Should the Left Support Democrats?"
-labor donated-
boston@SocialistAlternative.org http://boston.socialistalternative.org
774-454-9060
APRIL 14TH -15TH (SATURDAY AND SUNDAY)
@ The Democracy Center
45 Mount Auburn St Harvard Sq, a short walk from the T
FEATURING- Saturday, April 14th (Day 1)
10am to 11:30-Rally/Forum -
"We Won't Pay for Their Crisis"
11:30 to 12:30-Workshops:
Lessons of Wisconsin Book Launch
Dismantling Sexist Culture
Youth Fight for Jobs
Marxism and Anarchism
12:30 to 1:30-Lunch
1:30 to 2:30-Forum - Independent Left Politics 2:30 to 3:30-Workshops:
Racism, Prisons and Police Brutality
Consumer Activism: Does "Move your money" really work?
Harvard No Layoffs Campaign
Environment
3:30 to 5pm- International Struggles Forum: Featuring Greek, Nigerian and English speakers.
Sunday, April 15th (Day 2)
12 noon to 1 pm-Socialism Frequently Asked Questions
1 pm to 3pm-DISCUSSION on with PDA: "Should the Left Support Democrats?"
-labor donated-
boston@SocialistAlternative.org http://boston.socialistalternative.org
774-454-9060
From The Coalition Of Immokalee (Fl)Workers (CIW)- Stop & (Sweat) Shop Supermarkets Bargain For Fair Wages And Working Conditions Now !
From The Coalition Of Immokalee (Fl)Workers (CIW)- Stop & (Sweat) Shop Supermarkets Bargain For Fair Wages And Working Conditions Now !
WARNING
Stop & Shop tomatoes may be harvested by Florida farmworkers under the following conditions:
Sub-poverty wages
Workers are paid virtually the same piece rate (an average of 50 cents per 32 lb. bucket) as they were 30 years ago. At this rate, a worker must pick over 2.5 tons of tomatoes to earn Florida minimum wage in a typical 10-hour workday. Most workers earn less than $12,000 per year.
Denial Of Fundamental Labor Rights
Farmworkers in Florida have no right to overtime pay, no health insurance, sick leave, paid vacation or pension, and no right to organize in order to improve these conditions.
Modern Day Slavery
In the most extreme conditions, farmworkers are held against their will and forced to work for little or no pay. Federal Civil Rights officials have successfully prosecuted seven slavery operations involving over 1,200 workers in Florida's fields since 1997, prompting one federal prosecutor to call Florida "ground zero for modern-day slavery." In 2010, federal prosecutors indicted two more forced labor rings operating in Florida.
For decades, Florida's farmworkers faced poverty wages and daily violations of their basic rights - including modern-day slavery in the most extreme cases - in order to harvest the food on our plates.
Today, however, a new day is dawning in the fields. The Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW) — an internationally-recognized farmworker organization — has reached groundbreaking agreements with ten of the world's leading food retailers, including McDonald's, Subway and Trader Joe's. Hailed by the New York Times as "possibly the most successful labor action in the U.S. in twenty years,"the Fair Food Program establishes a worker-designed code of conduct in the fields and requires retailers to pay one more penny per pound for the tomatoes they buy to go directly to the workers who picked them—all of which is monitored and enforced by the independent Fair Food Standards Council.
Supermarkets like Ahold (parent company of Stop & Shop) leverage . their high-volume purchasing power to demand the ever-lower prices that result in farmworker exploitation. By refusing to partner with the CIW, the steps the company has claimed to take fall far short of the substantive, verifiable and enforceable standards that the situation requires, consumers expect, and others within the industry have embraced.
Demand that Stop & Shop uphold farmworker rights and join the Fair Food Program!
www.ciw-online.org
WARNING
Stop & Shop tomatoes may be harvested by Florida farmworkers under the following conditions:
Sub-poverty wages
Workers are paid virtually the same piece rate (an average of 50 cents per 32 lb. bucket) as they were 30 years ago. At this rate, a worker must pick over 2.5 tons of tomatoes to earn Florida minimum wage in a typical 10-hour workday. Most workers earn less than $12,000 per year.
Denial Of Fundamental Labor Rights
Farmworkers in Florida have no right to overtime pay, no health insurance, sick leave, paid vacation or pension, and no right to organize in order to improve these conditions.
Modern Day Slavery
In the most extreme conditions, farmworkers are held against their will and forced to work for little or no pay. Federal Civil Rights officials have successfully prosecuted seven slavery operations involving over 1,200 workers in Florida's fields since 1997, prompting one federal prosecutor to call Florida "ground zero for modern-day slavery." In 2010, federal prosecutors indicted two more forced labor rings operating in Florida.
For decades, Florida's farmworkers faced poverty wages and daily violations of their basic rights - including modern-day slavery in the most extreme cases - in order to harvest the food on our plates.
Today, however, a new day is dawning in the fields. The Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW) — an internationally-recognized farmworker organization — has reached groundbreaking agreements with ten of the world's leading food retailers, including McDonald's, Subway and Trader Joe's. Hailed by the New York Times as "possibly the most successful labor action in the U.S. in twenty years,"the Fair Food Program establishes a worker-designed code of conduct in the fields and requires retailers to pay one more penny per pound for the tomatoes they buy to go directly to the workers who picked them—all of which is monitored and enforced by the independent Fair Food Standards Council.
Supermarkets like Ahold (parent company of Stop & Shop) leverage . their high-volume purchasing power to demand the ever-lower prices that result in farmworker exploitation. By refusing to partner with the CIW, the steps the company has claimed to take fall far short of the substantive, verifiable and enforceable standards that the situation requires, consumers expect, and others within the industry have embraced.
Demand that Stop & Shop uphold farmworker rights and join the Fair Food Program!
www.ciw-online.org
From Un-Occupied Boston- Radio "Occupy Boston"-www.obr.fm
From Un-Occupied Boston- Radio "Occupy Boston"-www.obr.fm
radio-www.obr.fm
OBR Working Group Meetings
Mondays & Fridays
7pm-9pm E5, 33 Harrison Ave, 5th Fl Boston
Join the movement to craft a radio station for everyone, where all voices are heard. Help OB Radio build a News program, a talk show or a program dedicated to independent tunes.
We're seeking producers and show hosts as well as members behind the scene.
Meeting are open & all are welcome.
Occupy Boston Radio is a community based and volunteer run Internet radio station broadcasting out of the metropolitan Boston area.
OBR strives to facilitate, offering a wide variety of individuals and groups an opportunity to share their experiences, concerns, and perspectives over the Occupy airwaves.
OBR Trainings/Workshops
Producer Training 04/T1 & 04/14
Program Dev Workshop 04/18 & 04/21
Editing Workshop 04/25 & 04/28
&
Saturdays 10am-12pm
Wednesdays 6pm-8pm
E5, 33 Harrison Ave, 5th Floor Boston (Chinatown MBTA stop)
Learn to broadcast using a computer. Create & develop your own radio show. Refine your audio editing skills. Free & Open to ALLI
Website: www.OBR.fm http://www.occupyboston.org/radio/
Phone #: (617) 50-MY-RAD
* Wikh http://wiki.occupyboston,org/wiki/WG/radio * Twitter:@occupybosradio
* Facebook:http://www.facebook.com/pages/Occupy-Boslon-Radio/252192604847461
* WePay: hffps://www. wepay.com/donations/oceupybostonradio
radio-www.obr.fm
OBR Working Group Meetings
Mondays & Fridays
7pm-9pm E5, 33 Harrison Ave, 5th Fl Boston
Join the movement to craft a radio station for everyone, where all voices are heard. Help OB Radio build a News program, a talk show or a program dedicated to independent tunes.
We're seeking producers and show hosts as well as members behind the scene.
Meeting are open & all are welcome.
Occupy Boston Radio is a community based and volunteer run Internet radio station broadcasting out of the metropolitan Boston area.
OBR strives to facilitate, offering a wide variety of individuals and groups an opportunity to share their experiences, concerns, and perspectives over the Occupy airwaves.
OBR Trainings/Workshops
Producer Training 04/T1 & 04/14
Program Dev Workshop 04/18 & 04/21
Editing Workshop 04/25 & 04/28
&
Saturdays 10am-12pm
Wednesdays 6pm-8pm
E5, 33 Harrison Ave, 5th Floor Boston (Chinatown MBTA stop)
Learn to broadcast using a computer. Create & develop your own radio show. Refine your audio editing skills. Free & Open to ALLI
Website: www.OBR.fm http://www.occupyboston.org/radio/
Phone #: (617) 50-MY-RAD
* Wikh http://wiki.occupyboston,org/wiki/WG/radio * Twitter:@occupybosradio
* Facebook:http://www.facebook.com/pages/Occupy-Boslon-Radio/252192604847461
* WePay: hffps://www. wepay.com/donations/oceupybostonradio
OCCUPY BOSTON COMMUNITY GATHERING-WHAT'S THE LINK BETWEEN WAR & THE ECONOMY?-Monday April 23rd- 6:00-8:30 PM
OCCUPY BOSTON COMMUNITY GATHERING
MONDAY, APRIL 23 6:00-8:30PM
WHAT'S THE LINK BETWEEN WAR & THE ECONOMY?
Presentation: The Price of War
A short presentation from the New Priorities Network
Panel: Community Impact
A discussion with activists from the local community, peace, labor, and veteran movements about how the war impacts their communities:
Tyrek Lee I Vice President, 1199 SEIU Massachusetts
Oliver Hendricks I City Life / Vida Urbana, Coalition to
Fund Our Communities / Cut Military Spending by 25%
Duncan McFarland I United for Justice with Peace
Rachel McNeill I Veterans For Peace
Discussion: Where do we go from here?
ORGANIZED BY THE FREE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY
For more information, email fsu@lists.occupyboston.org, or visit wiki.occupyboston.org/wiki/fsu.
St. Paul's Cathedral, 138 Tremont St, Boston
(Across from the Park St T Stop - Red Line)
MONDAY, APRIL 23 6:00-8:30PM
WHAT'S THE LINK BETWEEN WAR & THE ECONOMY?
Presentation: The Price of War
A short presentation from the New Priorities Network
Panel: Community Impact
A discussion with activists from the local community, peace, labor, and veteran movements about how the war impacts their communities:
Tyrek Lee I Vice President, 1199 SEIU Massachusetts
Oliver Hendricks I City Life / Vida Urbana, Coalition to
Fund Our Communities / Cut Military Spending by 25%
Duncan McFarland I United for Justice with Peace
Rachel McNeill I Veterans For Peace
Discussion: Where do we go from here?
ORGANIZED BY THE FREE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY
For more information, email fsu@lists.occupyboston.org, or visit wiki.occupyboston.org/wiki/fsu.
St. Paul's Cathedral, 138 Tremont St, Boston
(Across from the Park St T Stop - Red Line)
From #Ur-Occupied Boston (#Ur-Tomemonos Boston)-General Assembly-The Embryo Of An Alternate Government-Learn The Lessons Of History-Lessons From The Utopian Socialists- Charles Fourier and The Phalanx Movement-“The Phalanx on Parade: Its Sixteen Tribes”
Click on the headline to link to the archives of the Occupy Boston General Assembly minutes from the Occupy Boston website. Occupy Boston started at 6:00 PM, September 30, 2011. The General Assembly is the core political institution of the Occupy movement. Some of the minutes will reflect the growing pains of that movement and its concepts of political organization. Note that I used the word embryo in the headline and I believe that gives a fair estimate of its status, and its possibilities.
****
An Injury To One Is An Injury To All!-Defend All The Occupation Sites And All The Occupiers! Drop All Charges Against All Protesters Everywhere!
********
Charles Fourier (1772-1837)
“The Phalanx on Parade: Its Sixteen Tribes”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Source: The Utopian Vision of Charles Fourier. Selected Texts on Work, Love, and Passionate Attraction. Translated, Edited and with an Introduction by Jonathan Beecher and Richard Bienvenu. Published by Jonathan Cape, 1972;
First Published: La Phalange 1845-49.
Transcribed: by Andy Blunden.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When a Phalanx gathers for ceremonial occasions such as receptions and important festivities, it forms a vast series consisting of thirty-two choirs (sixteen male and sixteen female) each of which parades with its own special costumes and ornaments. This series, which can be called the basic series, is one of those which has the same distinguishing features throughout the globe. In all countries it adopts the thirty-two colours specified for each of its thirty-two choirs; these colours are required only on its pennants, plumes and distinctive ornaments.
Each of the thirty-two choirs has three uniforms for the three seasons — hot, cold and moderate. Each has its banners, its officers and its own special form of corporate enthusiasm, all of which serve as powerful stimuli in work and other activities. Since I will often be referring to this series, it should be described in great detail. In the outline that follows I designate under the name of tribes the double choirs of men and women and boys and girls who belong to the same age group.
Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It, It’s Ours! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
********
Below I am posting, occasionally, comments on the Occupy movement as I see or hear things of interest, or that cause alarm bells to ring in my head. The first comment directly below from October 1, which represented my first impressions of Occupy Boston, is the lead for all further postings.
*******
Markin comment October 1, 2011:
There is a lot of naiveté expressed about the nature of capitalism, capitalists, and the way to win in the class struggle by various participants in this occupation. Many also have attempted to make a virtue out of that naiveté, particularly around the issues of effective democratic organization (the General Assembly, its unrepresentative nature and its undemocratic consensus process) and relationships with the police (they are not our friends, no way, when the deal goes down). However, their spirit is refreshing, they are acting out of good subjective anti-capitalist motives and, most importantly, even those of us who call ourselves "reds" (communists), including this writer, started out from liberal premises as naive, if not more so, than those encountered at the occupation site. We can all learn something but in the meantime we must defend the "occupation" and the occupiers. More later as the occupation continues.
**********
In the recent past as part of my one of my commentaries I noted the following:
“… The idea of the General Assembly with each individual attendee acting as a “tribune of the people” is interesting and important. And, of course, it represents, for today anyway, the embryo of what the ‘new world’ we need to create might look like at the governmental level.”
A couple of the people that I have talked to lately were not quite sure what to make of that idea. The idea that what is going on in Occupy Boston at the governmental level could, should, would be a possible form of governing this society in the “new world a-borning” with the rise of the Occupy movement. Part of the problem is that there was some confusion on the part of the listeners that one of the possible aims of this movement is to create an alternative government, or at least provide a model for such a government. I will argue here now, and in the future, that it should be one of the goals. In short, we need to take power away from the Democrats and Republicans and their tired old congressional/executive/judicial doesn’t work- checks and balances-form of governing and place it at the grassroots level and work upward from there rather than, as now, have power devolve from the top. (And stop well short of the bottom.)
I will leave aside the question (the problem really) of what it would take to create such a possibility. Of course a revolutionary solution would, of necessity, have be on the table since there is no way that the current powerful interests, Democratic, Republican or those of the "one percent" having no named politics, is going to give up power without a fight. What I want to pose now is the use of the General Assembly as a deliberative executive, legislative, and judicial body all rolled into one.
Previous historical models readily come to mind; the short-lived but heroic Paris Commune of 1871 that Karl Marx tirelessly defended against the reactionaries of Europe as the prototype of a workers government; the early heroic days of the Russian October Revolution of 1917 when the workers councils (soviets in Russian parlance) acted as a true workers' government; and the period in the Spanish Revolution of 1936-39 where the Central Committee of the Anti-Fascist Militias acted, de facto, as a workers government. All the just mentioned examples had their problems and flaws, no question. However, merely mentioning the General Assembly concept in the same paragraph as these great historic examples should signal that thoughtful leftists and other militants need to investigate and study these examples.
In order to facilitate the investigation and study of those examples I will, occasionally, post works in this space that deal with these forbears from several leftist perspectives (rightist perspectives were clear- crush all the above examples ruthlessly, and with no mercy- so we need not look at them now). I started this Lessons Of History series with Karl Marx’s classic defense and critique of the Paris Commune, The Civil War In France and today’s presentation noted in the headline continues on in that same vein.
********
A Five-Point Program As Talking Points
*Jobs For All Now!-“30 For 40”- A historic demand of the labor movement. Thirty hours work for forty hours pay to spread the available work around. Organize the unorganized- Organize the South- Organize Wal-Mart- Defend the right of public and private sector workers to unionize.
* Defend the working classes! No union dues for Democratic (or the stray Republican) candidates. Spent the dues on organizing the unorganized and other labor-specific causes (example, the November, 2011 anti-union recall referendum in Ohio).
*End the endless wars!- Immediate, Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops (And Mercenaries) From Afghanistan! Hands Off Pakistan! Hands Off Iran! Hands Off The World!
*Fight for a social agenda for working people!. Quality Healthcare For All! Nationalize the colleges and universities under student-teacher-campus worker control! Forgive student debt! Stop housing foreclosures!
*We created the wealth, let’s take it back. Take the struggle for our daily bread off the historic agenda. Build a workers party that fights for a workers government to unite all the oppressed.
Emblazon on our red banner-Labor and the oppressed must rule!
*******
****
An Injury To One Is An Injury To All!-Defend All The Occupation Sites And All The Occupiers! Drop All Charges Against All Protesters Everywhere!
********
Charles Fourier (1772-1837)
“The Phalanx on Parade: Its Sixteen Tribes”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Source: The Utopian Vision of Charles Fourier. Selected Texts on Work, Love, and Passionate Attraction. Translated, Edited and with an Introduction by Jonathan Beecher and Richard Bienvenu. Published by Jonathan Cape, 1972;
First Published: La Phalange 1845-49.
Transcribed: by Andy Blunden.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When a Phalanx gathers for ceremonial occasions such as receptions and important festivities, it forms a vast series consisting of thirty-two choirs (sixteen male and sixteen female) each of which parades with its own special costumes and ornaments. This series, which can be called the basic series, is one of those which has the same distinguishing features throughout the globe. In all countries it adopts the thirty-two colours specified for each of its thirty-two choirs; these colours are required only on its pennants, plumes and distinctive ornaments.
Each of the thirty-two choirs has three uniforms for the three seasons — hot, cold and moderate. Each has its banners, its officers and its own special form of corporate enthusiasm, all of which serve as powerful stimuli in work and other activities. Since I will often be referring to this series, it should be described in great detail. In the outline that follows I designate under the name of tribes the double choirs of men and women and boys and girls who belong to the same age group.
Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It, It’s Ours! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
********
Below I am posting, occasionally, comments on the Occupy movement as I see or hear things of interest, or that cause alarm bells to ring in my head. The first comment directly below from October 1, which represented my first impressions of Occupy Boston, is the lead for all further postings.
*******
Markin comment October 1, 2011:
There is a lot of naiveté expressed about the nature of capitalism, capitalists, and the way to win in the class struggle by various participants in this occupation. Many also have attempted to make a virtue out of that naiveté, particularly around the issues of effective democratic organization (the General Assembly, its unrepresentative nature and its undemocratic consensus process) and relationships with the police (they are not our friends, no way, when the deal goes down). However, their spirit is refreshing, they are acting out of good subjective anti-capitalist motives and, most importantly, even those of us who call ourselves "reds" (communists), including this writer, started out from liberal premises as naive, if not more so, than those encountered at the occupation site. We can all learn something but in the meantime we must defend the "occupation" and the occupiers. More later as the occupation continues.
**********
In the recent past as part of my one of my commentaries I noted the following:
“… The idea of the General Assembly with each individual attendee acting as a “tribune of the people” is interesting and important. And, of course, it represents, for today anyway, the embryo of what the ‘new world’ we need to create might look like at the governmental level.”
A couple of the people that I have talked to lately were not quite sure what to make of that idea. The idea that what is going on in Occupy Boston at the governmental level could, should, would be a possible form of governing this society in the “new world a-borning” with the rise of the Occupy movement. Part of the problem is that there was some confusion on the part of the listeners that one of the possible aims of this movement is to create an alternative government, or at least provide a model for such a government. I will argue here now, and in the future, that it should be one of the goals. In short, we need to take power away from the Democrats and Republicans and their tired old congressional/executive/judicial doesn’t work- checks and balances-form of governing and place it at the grassroots level and work upward from there rather than, as now, have power devolve from the top. (And stop well short of the bottom.)
I will leave aside the question (the problem really) of what it would take to create such a possibility. Of course a revolutionary solution would, of necessity, have be on the table since there is no way that the current powerful interests, Democratic, Republican or those of the "one percent" having no named politics, is going to give up power without a fight. What I want to pose now is the use of the General Assembly as a deliberative executive, legislative, and judicial body all rolled into one.
Previous historical models readily come to mind; the short-lived but heroic Paris Commune of 1871 that Karl Marx tirelessly defended against the reactionaries of Europe as the prototype of a workers government; the early heroic days of the Russian October Revolution of 1917 when the workers councils (soviets in Russian parlance) acted as a true workers' government; and the period in the Spanish Revolution of 1936-39 where the Central Committee of the Anti-Fascist Militias acted, de facto, as a workers government. All the just mentioned examples had their problems and flaws, no question. However, merely mentioning the General Assembly concept in the same paragraph as these great historic examples should signal that thoughtful leftists and other militants need to investigate and study these examples.
In order to facilitate the investigation and study of those examples I will, occasionally, post works in this space that deal with these forbears from several leftist perspectives (rightist perspectives were clear- crush all the above examples ruthlessly, and with no mercy- so we need not look at them now). I started this Lessons Of History series with Karl Marx’s classic defense and critique of the Paris Commune, The Civil War In France and today’s presentation noted in the headline continues on in that same vein.
********
A Five-Point Program As Talking Points
*Jobs For All Now!-“30 For 40”- A historic demand of the labor movement. Thirty hours work for forty hours pay to spread the available work around. Organize the unorganized- Organize the South- Organize Wal-Mart- Defend the right of public and private sector workers to unionize.
* Defend the working classes! No union dues for Democratic (or the stray Republican) candidates. Spent the dues on organizing the unorganized and other labor-specific causes (example, the November, 2011 anti-union recall referendum in Ohio).
*End the endless wars!- Immediate, Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops (And Mercenaries) From Afghanistan! Hands Off Pakistan! Hands Off Iran! Hands Off The World!
*Fight for a social agenda for working people!. Quality Healthcare For All! Nationalize the colleges and universities under student-teacher-campus worker control! Forgive student debt! Stop housing foreclosures!
*We created the wealth, let’s take it back. Take the struggle for our daily bread off the historic agenda. Build a workers party that fights for a workers government to unite all the oppressed.
Emblazon on our red banner-Labor and the oppressed must rule!
*******
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Out In The Be-Bop Blue-Pink Great American West Night-A Saga
This post is a response to a young reader and co-worker a couple of years ago who had been curious about, and somewhat mystified by, my then recent references to a somewhat mystical search for a blue-pink great American West night. Here, slightly abridged is my response. Whee!
There is no question that over the past year or so I have been deep in remembrances of the influences, great and small, of the 1950s “beats” on my own sorry teen-aged alienation and teen-aged angst (some times they were separate anguishes, some times tied together like inseparable twins, mostly the later) and the struggle to find my place in the sun, to write in bright lights my own beat plainsong. Of course, that "beat" influence was blown over me second-hand as I was just a little too young, or a little too wide-world unconscious, to be there at the creation, on those first roads west, those first fitfully car-driven, gas-fuelled, thumb hanging-out, sore-footed, free exploration west roads, in body and mind. And of that first great rush of the adrenal in trying to discover, eternally discover as it has turned out, the search for the meaning of the great blue-pink American West night. Ah, pioneer-boys, thanks.
I just got a whiff, a passing whiff of that electric-charged air, the sweet “be-bop”, bop-bop, real gone daddy, cooled-out, pipe-filled with whatever, jazz-sexed, high white-note blown, howling in the wind plainsong afterglow. Moreover, somewhat tarnished, a little sullen and withdrawn, and media-used up by my time. More than one faux black chino-wearing, black beret’d, stringy-bearded, nightshade sun-glassed, pseudo-poetic-pounding, television-derived fakir crossed my path in Harvard Square in those high stakes early 1960s high school days. And a few real ones, as well. (A couple, whom I still pass occasionally, giving a quick nod to, have never given up the ghost and still haunt the old Square looking for the long-gone, storied Hayes-Bickford, a place where the serious and the fakirs gathered in the late night before dawn hour to pour out their souls, via mouth or on paper. Good luck, men, keep searching.). More to the point, I came too late to be able to settle comfortably into that anti-political world that the “beats” thrived in. Great political and social events were unfolding and I wanted in, feverishly wanted in, with both hands (and, maybe,feet too).
You know some of the beat leaders, the real ones, don’t you? Remembered, seemingly profusely remembered now, by every passing acquaintance with some rough-hewn writing specimen or faded photograph to present. Now merely photo-plastered, book wrote, college english department deconstruction’d , academic journal-debated, but then in full glory plaid shirt, white shirt, tee shirt, dungarees, chinos, sturdy foot-sore cosmic traveler shoes, visuals of heaven’s own angel bums, if there was a heaven and there were angels and if that locale needed bums.
Jack, million hungry word man-child sanctified, Lowell mills-etched and trapped and mother-fed, Jack Kerouac. Allen, om-om-om, bop, bop, mantra-man, mad Paterson-trapped, modern plainsong-poet-in-chief, Allen Ginsberg. William, sweet opium dream (or, maybe, not so sweet when the supply ran out), needle-driven, sardonic, ironic, chronic, Tangiers-trapped, Harvard man (finally, a useful one, oops, sorry), Williams S. Burroughs. Neal, wild word, wild gesture, out of ashcan all-America dream man, tire-kicking, oil-checking, gas-filling, zen master wheelman gluing the enterprise together, Neal Cassady. And a whirling crowd of others, including mad, street-wise, saint-gunsel, Gregory Corso.
I am a little fuzzy these days on the genesis of my relationship to this crowd (although a reading of Ginsberg’s Howl was probably first in those frantic, high school, Harvard Square-hopping, poetry-pounding, guitar-strummed, existential word space, coffee, no sugar, I’ll have a refill, please, fugitive dream’d, coffeehouse-anchored days). This I know. I qualified, in triplicate, teen angst, teen alienation, teen luddite as a card-carrying member in those days.
More recently that old time angst, that old time alienation and a smidgen of that old time luddite has casted its spell on me. I have been held hostage to, been hypnotized by, been ocean-sized swept away by, been word ping-pong bounced off of and collided into by, head-over-heels language-loved by, word-curled around and caressed by the ancient black night into the drowsy dawn 1950s child view vision Kerouac/Ginsberg/Burroughs/Corso-led “beats” homage to the great American West night. (Beat: life beat-up, fellaheen beat-down, beat around, be-bop jazz beat, beatified church beat, howl poem beat, beat okay, anyway you can get a handle on it, beat.)
The great American West “beat” breakout from the day weary, boxed-in, shoulder-to-the-wheel, eyes forward, hands to the keyboard, work-a-day-world, dream-fleshed-out night. Of leaving behind on the slow-fast, two-lane, no passing, broken-lined old Route 6, or 66, or 666, or whatever route, whatever dream route, whatever dream hitchhike gas station/diner highway beyond the Eastern shores night, of the get away from the machine, the machine making machines, the “little boxes” machine night, and also of the reckless breakout of mannered, cramped, parlor-fit language night. Whoa!
This Kerouacian wordplay on-the-road’d, dharma-bummed, big sur’d, desolation angel’d night, this Ginsberg-ite trumpet howl, cry-out to the high heavens against the death machine night, this Burroughs-ish languid, sweet opium-dreamed, laid-back night, this Neal Cassady-driven, foot-clutched, brake-pedaled, wagon-master of the to and fro of the post-World War II American West night, was not my night but close enough so that I could touch it, and have it touch me even half a century later. So blame Jack and the gang, okay, and I will give you his current Lowell, Massachusetts home address upon request so that you can direct your inquiries there.
Blame Jack, as well, for the busting out beyond the factory lakes, corn-fed plains, get the hell out of Kansas flats, on up into the rockiesmountainhigh (or is it just high) and then straight, no time for dinosaur lament Ogden or tumbleweed Winnemucca, to the coast, come hell or high water. Ya, busting out and free. Kid dream great American West night, car-driven (hell, old pick-up truck-driven, English racer bicycle-driven, hitchhike thumbed, flat-bed train-ridden, sore-footed, shoe-beaten walked, if need be), two dollar tank-filled, oil-checked, tires kicked, money pocket’d, surf’s up, surf’s crashing up against the high shoulder ancient seawalls, cruising down the coast highway, the endlessly twisting jalopy-driven pin-turned coast highway, down by the shore, sand swirling, bingo, bango, bongo with your baby everything’s alright, go some place after, some great American West drive-in place. Can you blame me?
So as for that co-worker, that well-respected young co-worker, what would he know, really, of the great blue-pink American West night that I, and not I alone, was searching for back in those halcyon days of my youth in the early 1960s. What would he know, for example, except in story book or oral tradition from parents or, oh no, maybe, grandparents, of the old time parched, dusty, shoe-leather-beating, foot-sore, sore-shouldered, backpacked, bed-rolled, going-my-way?, watch out for the cops over there (especially in Connecticut and Arizona), hitchhike white-lined road. The thirsty, blistered, backpacked, bed-rolled, thumb-stuck-out, eternally thumb-stuck-out, waiting for some great savior kindred-laden Volkswagen home/collective/ magical mystery tour bus or the commandeered rainbow-marked, life-marked, soul-marked yellow school bus, yellow brick road school bus. Hell, even of old farmer-going-to-market, fruit and vegetable-laden Ford truck, benny-popping, eyes-wide, metal-to-the-petal, transcontinental teamster-driving goods to some westward market or kid Saturday love nest, buddy-racing cool jalopy road. Ya, what would he know of that.
Of the road out, out anywhere, anywhere west, from the stuffy confines of worn-out, hard-scrabble, uptight, ocean-at-you-back, close-quartered, neighbor on top of neighbor, keep your private business private, used-up New England granite-grey death-chanting night. Of the struggle, really, for color, to change the contour of the natural palette to other colors brighter than the New England leafy greens and browns of the trees and the blues, or better blue-greens, or even better yet of white-flecked, white foamed, blue-greens of the Eastern oceans. (Ya, I know, I know, before you even start on me about it, all about the million tree flaming yellow-red-orange autumn leaf minute and the thousand icicle-dropped, road strewn dead tree branch, white winter snow drift eternity, on land or ocean but those don’t count, at least here, and not now)
Or of the infinite oil-stained, gas-fumed, rag-wiped, overall’d, gas-jockey, Esso, Texaco, Mobil, Shell stations named, the rest lost too lost in time to name, two dollar fill-up-check-the-oil, please, the-water-as-well, inflate the tires, hit the murky, fetid, lava soap-smelled bathrooms, maybe grab a Coke, hey, no Hires Root Beer on this road. This Route 66, or Route 50 or Route you-name-the route, route west, exit east dream route, rolling red barn-dotted (needing paints to this jaded eye), rocky field-plowed (crooked plowed to boot), occasionally cow-mooed, same for horses, sheep, some scrawny chickens, and children as well, scrawny too. The leavings of the westward trek, when the westward trek meant eternal fields, golden fields, and to hell with damned rocks, and silts, and worn-out soils absent-mindedly left behind for those who would have to, have to I tell you, stay put in the cabin'd hollows and lazily watered-creeks. On the endlessly sulky blues-greens, the sullen smoky grey-black of mist-foamed rolling hills that echo the slight sound of the mountain wind tunnel, of the creakily-fiddled wind-song Appalachian night.
Or of diner stops, little narrow-aisled, pop-up-stool’d, formica counter-topped, red (mostly) imitation leather booth, smoked-filled cabooses of diners. Of now anchored, abandoned train porter-serviced, off-silver, off-green, off-red, off any faded color “greasy spoon” diners. Of daily house special meat loaf, gravy-slurp, steam-soggy carrots, and buttered mashed potato-fill up, Saturday night pot roast special, turkey club sandwich potato chips on the side, breakfast all day, coffee-fill-up, free refill, please, diners. Granddaddies to today’s more spacious back road highway locales, styled family-friendly but that still reek of meat loaf-steamed carrots- creamed mashed tater-fill. Spots then that spoke of rarely employed, hungry men, of shifty-eyed, expense account-weary traveling men, of high-benny, eyes-wide, mortgaged to the hilt, wife ran off with boyfriend, kids hardly know him, teamsters hauling American product to and fro and of other men not at ease in more eloquent, table-mannered, women-touched places. Those landscape old state and county side of the highway diners, complete with authentic surly, know-it-all-been-through-it-all, pencil-eared, steam-sweated uniform, maybe, cigarette-hanging from tired ruby red lips, heavily made-up waitress along the endless slag-heap, rusting railroad bed, sulphur-aired, grey-black smoke-belching , fiery furnace-blasting, headache metal-pounding, steel-eyed, coal dust-breathe, hog-butcher to the world, sinewy-muscled green-grey, moonless, Great Lakes night.
Or of two-bit road intersection stops, some rutted, pot-holed country road intersecting some mud-spattered, creviced backwater farm road, practically dirt roads barely removed from old time prairie pioneer day times, west-crazy pioneer times, ghost-crazy-pioneer days. Of fields, vast slightly rolling, actually very slightly rolling, endless yellow, yellow–glazed, yellow-tinged, yellow until you get sick of the sight of yellow, sick of the word yellow even, acres under cultivation to feed hungry cities, as if corn, or soy, or wheat, or manna itself could fill that empty-bellied feeling that is ablaze in the land. But we will deal with one hunger at a time. And dotted every so often with silos and barns and grain elevators for all to know the crops are in and ready to serve that physical hunger. Of half-sleep, half hungry-eye, city boy hungry eyes, unused to the dark, dangerous, sullen, unknown shadows, bed roll-unrolled, knapsack pillowed, sleep by the side of the wheat, soy, corn road ravine, and every once in a blue moon midnight car passings, snaggly blanket-covered, knap-sack head rested, cold-frozed, out in the great day corn yellow field beneath the blue black, beyond city sky black, starless Iowa night.
Or of the hard-hilled climb, and climb and climb, breathe taken away magic climb, crevice-etched, rock-interface, sore-footed magic mountain that no Thomas Mann can capture. Half-walked-half-driven, bouncing back seat, back seat of over-filled truck-driven, still rising up, no passing on the left, facing sheer-cliff’d, famous free-fall spots, still rising, rising colder, rising frozen colder, fearful of the sudden summer squalls, white out summer squalls. Shocking, I confess, beyond shocking to New England-hardened winter boy, then sudden sunshine floral bursts and jacket against the cold comes tumbling off. And I confess again, majestic, did I say majestic and beats visions of old Atlantic ocean swells at dawn crashing against harmless seawalls. Old pioneer-trekked, old pioneer-feared, old rutted wheeled, two-hearted remembrances, two-hearted but no returning back (it would be too painful to do again) remembrances as you slide out of Denver into the icy-white black rockymountainhigh night.
Of foot-swollen pleasures in some arid back canyon arroyo, etched in time told by reading its face, layer after layer, red, red-mucked, beige, beige-mucked, copper, copper-mucked, like some Georgia O'Keeffe dream painting out in the red, beige, copper black-devouring desert night. Sounds, primal sounds, of old dinosaur laments and one hundred generations of shamanic Native American pounding crying out for vengeance against the desecrations of the land. Against the cowboy badlands takeover, against the white rampages of the sacred soil. And of canyon-shadowed, flame-shadowed, wind swept, canteen stews simmering and smokey from the jet blue, orange flickering campfire. Of quiet, desert quiet, high desert quiet, of tumbleweed running dreams out in the pure sandstone-edged, grey-black Nevada night.
And then... .
the great Western shore, surf’s up, white, white wave-flecked, lapis-lazuli blue-flecked ocean, rust golden-gated, no return, no boat out, land's end, this is it coast highway, heading down or up now, heading up or down gas stationed, named and unnamed, side road diners, still caboose’d, ravine-edged sleep and beach sleeped, blue-pink American West night.
Yes, but there is more. No child vision but now of full blossom American West night, the San Francisco great American West night, of the be-bop, bop-bop, narrow-stepped, downstairs overflowed music cellar, shared in my time, the time of my time, by “beat” jazz, “hippie’d folk”, and howled poem, but at this minute jazz, high white note-blown, sexed sax-playing godman, unnamed, but like Lester Young’s own child jazz. Smoke-filled, blended meshed smokes of ganja and tobacco (and, maybe, of meshed pipe smokes of hashish and tobacco), ordered whisky-straight up, soon be-sotted, cheap, face-reddened wines, clanking coffee cups that speak of not tonight promise. High sexual intensity under wraps, tightly under wraps, swirls inside it own mad desire, black-dressed she (black dress, black sweater, black stockings, black shoes, black bag, black beret, black sunglasses, ah, sweet color scheme against white Madonna, white, secular Madonna alabaster skin. What do you want to bet black undergarments too, ah, but I am the soul of discretion, your imagination will have to do), promising shades of heat-glanced night. And later, later than night just before the darkest hour dawn, of poems poet’d, of freedom songs free-verse’d, of that sax-charged high white-note following out the door, out into the street, out the eternity lights of the great golden-gated night. I say, can you blame me?
Of later roads, the north Oregon hitchhike roads, the Redwood-strewn road not a trace of black-dressed she, she now of blue serge denim pants, of brown plaid flannel long-sleeved shirt, of some golfer’s dream floppy-brimmed hat, and of sturdy, thick-heeled work boots (undergarments again left to your imagination) against the hazards of summer snow squall Crater Lake. And now of slightly sun-burned face against the ravages of the road, against the parched sun-devil road that no ointments can relieve. And beyond later to goose-down bundled, hunter-hatted, thick work glove-clad, snowshoe-shod against the tremors of the great big eternal bump of the great Alaska highway. Can she blame me? Guess.
Ya, put it that way and what does that young co-worker, a dreamer of his own dreams, and rightly too, know of an old man’s fiercely-held, fiercely-defended, fiercely-dreamed beyond dreaming blue-pink dreams. Or of ancient blue-pink sorrows, sadnesses, angers, joys, longings and lovings, either.
There is no question that over the past year or so I have been deep in remembrances of the influences, great and small, of the 1950s “beats” on my own sorry teen-aged alienation and teen-aged angst (some times they were separate anguishes, some times tied together like inseparable twins, mostly the later) and the struggle to find my place in the sun, to write in bright lights my own beat plainsong. Of course, that "beat" influence was blown over me second-hand as I was just a little too young, or a little too wide-world unconscious, to be there at the creation, on those first roads west, those first fitfully car-driven, gas-fuelled, thumb hanging-out, sore-footed, free exploration west roads, in body and mind. And of that first great rush of the adrenal in trying to discover, eternally discover as it has turned out, the search for the meaning of the great blue-pink American West night. Ah, pioneer-boys, thanks.
I just got a whiff, a passing whiff of that electric-charged air, the sweet “be-bop”, bop-bop, real gone daddy, cooled-out, pipe-filled with whatever, jazz-sexed, high white-note blown, howling in the wind plainsong afterglow. Moreover, somewhat tarnished, a little sullen and withdrawn, and media-used up by my time. More than one faux black chino-wearing, black beret’d, stringy-bearded, nightshade sun-glassed, pseudo-poetic-pounding, television-derived fakir crossed my path in Harvard Square in those high stakes early 1960s high school days. And a few real ones, as well. (A couple, whom I still pass occasionally, giving a quick nod to, have never given up the ghost and still haunt the old Square looking for the long-gone, storied Hayes-Bickford, a place where the serious and the fakirs gathered in the late night before dawn hour to pour out their souls, via mouth or on paper. Good luck, men, keep searching.). More to the point, I came too late to be able to settle comfortably into that anti-political world that the “beats” thrived in. Great political and social events were unfolding and I wanted in, feverishly wanted in, with both hands (and, maybe,feet too).
You know some of the beat leaders, the real ones, don’t you? Remembered, seemingly profusely remembered now, by every passing acquaintance with some rough-hewn writing specimen or faded photograph to present. Now merely photo-plastered, book wrote, college english department deconstruction’d , academic journal-debated, but then in full glory plaid shirt, white shirt, tee shirt, dungarees, chinos, sturdy foot-sore cosmic traveler shoes, visuals of heaven’s own angel bums, if there was a heaven and there were angels and if that locale needed bums.
Jack, million hungry word man-child sanctified, Lowell mills-etched and trapped and mother-fed, Jack Kerouac. Allen, om-om-om, bop, bop, mantra-man, mad Paterson-trapped, modern plainsong-poet-in-chief, Allen Ginsberg. William, sweet opium dream (or, maybe, not so sweet when the supply ran out), needle-driven, sardonic, ironic, chronic, Tangiers-trapped, Harvard man (finally, a useful one, oops, sorry), Williams S. Burroughs. Neal, wild word, wild gesture, out of ashcan all-America dream man, tire-kicking, oil-checking, gas-filling, zen master wheelman gluing the enterprise together, Neal Cassady. And a whirling crowd of others, including mad, street-wise, saint-gunsel, Gregory Corso.
I am a little fuzzy these days on the genesis of my relationship to this crowd (although a reading of Ginsberg’s Howl was probably first in those frantic, high school, Harvard Square-hopping, poetry-pounding, guitar-strummed, existential word space, coffee, no sugar, I’ll have a refill, please, fugitive dream’d, coffeehouse-anchored days). This I know. I qualified, in triplicate, teen angst, teen alienation, teen luddite as a card-carrying member in those days.
More recently that old time angst, that old time alienation and a smidgen of that old time luddite has casted its spell on me. I have been held hostage to, been hypnotized by, been ocean-sized swept away by, been word ping-pong bounced off of and collided into by, head-over-heels language-loved by, word-curled around and caressed by the ancient black night into the drowsy dawn 1950s child view vision Kerouac/Ginsberg/Burroughs/Corso-led “beats” homage to the great American West night. (Beat: life beat-up, fellaheen beat-down, beat around, be-bop jazz beat, beatified church beat, howl poem beat, beat okay, anyway you can get a handle on it, beat.)
The great American West “beat” breakout from the day weary, boxed-in, shoulder-to-the-wheel, eyes forward, hands to the keyboard, work-a-day-world, dream-fleshed-out night. Of leaving behind on the slow-fast, two-lane, no passing, broken-lined old Route 6, or 66, or 666, or whatever route, whatever dream route, whatever dream hitchhike gas station/diner highway beyond the Eastern shores night, of the get away from the machine, the machine making machines, the “little boxes” machine night, and also of the reckless breakout of mannered, cramped, parlor-fit language night. Whoa!
This Kerouacian wordplay on-the-road’d, dharma-bummed, big sur’d, desolation angel’d night, this Ginsberg-ite trumpet howl, cry-out to the high heavens against the death machine night, this Burroughs-ish languid, sweet opium-dreamed, laid-back night, this Neal Cassady-driven, foot-clutched, brake-pedaled, wagon-master of the to and fro of the post-World War II American West night, was not my night but close enough so that I could touch it, and have it touch me even half a century later. So blame Jack and the gang, okay, and I will give you his current Lowell, Massachusetts home address upon request so that you can direct your inquiries there.
Blame Jack, as well, for the busting out beyond the factory lakes, corn-fed plains, get the hell out of Kansas flats, on up into the rockiesmountainhigh (or is it just high) and then straight, no time for dinosaur lament Ogden or tumbleweed Winnemucca, to the coast, come hell or high water. Ya, busting out and free. Kid dream great American West night, car-driven (hell, old pick-up truck-driven, English racer bicycle-driven, hitchhike thumbed, flat-bed train-ridden, sore-footed, shoe-beaten walked, if need be), two dollar tank-filled, oil-checked, tires kicked, money pocket’d, surf’s up, surf’s crashing up against the high shoulder ancient seawalls, cruising down the coast highway, the endlessly twisting jalopy-driven pin-turned coast highway, down by the shore, sand swirling, bingo, bango, bongo with your baby everything’s alright, go some place after, some great American West drive-in place. Can you blame me?
So as for that co-worker, that well-respected young co-worker, what would he know, really, of the great blue-pink American West night that I, and not I alone, was searching for back in those halcyon days of my youth in the early 1960s. What would he know, for example, except in story book or oral tradition from parents or, oh no, maybe, grandparents, of the old time parched, dusty, shoe-leather-beating, foot-sore, sore-shouldered, backpacked, bed-rolled, going-my-way?, watch out for the cops over there (especially in Connecticut and Arizona), hitchhike white-lined road. The thirsty, blistered, backpacked, bed-rolled, thumb-stuck-out, eternally thumb-stuck-out, waiting for some great savior kindred-laden Volkswagen home/collective/ magical mystery tour bus or the commandeered rainbow-marked, life-marked, soul-marked yellow school bus, yellow brick road school bus. Hell, even of old farmer-going-to-market, fruit and vegetable-laden Ford truck, benny-popping, eyes-wide, metal-to-the-petal, transcontinental teamster-driving goods to some westward market or kid Saturday love nest, buddy-racing cool jalopy road. Ya, what would he know of that.
Of the road out, out anywhere, anywhere west, from the stuffy confines of worn-out, hard-scrabble, uptight, ocean-at-you-back, close-quartered, neighbor on top of neighbor, keep your private business private, used-up New England granite-grey death-chanting night. Of the struggle, really, for color, to change the contour of the natural palette to other colors brighter than the New England leafy greens and browns of the trees and the blues, or better blue-greens, or even better yet of white-flecked, white foamed, blue-greens of the Eastern oceans. (Ya, I know, I know, before you even start on me about it, all about the million tree flaming yellow-red-orange autumn leaf minute and the thousand icicle-dropped, road strewn dead tree branch, white winter snow drift eternity, on land or ocean but those don’t count, at least here, and not now)
Or of the infinite oil-stained, gas-fumed, rag-wiped, overall’d, gas-jockey, Esso, Texaco, Mobil, Shell stations named, the rest lost too lost in time to name, two dollar fill-up-check-the-oil, please, the-water-as-well, inflate the tires, hit the murky, fetid, lava soap-smelled bathrooms, maybe grab a Coke, hey, no Hires Root Beer on this road. This Route 66, or Route 50 or Route you-name-the route, route west, exit east dream route, rolling red barn-dotted (needing paints to this jaded eye), rocky field-plowed (crooked plowed to boot), occasionally cow-mooed, same for horses, sheep, some scrawny chickens, and children as well, scrawny too. The leavings of the westward trek, when the westward trek meant eternal fields, golden fields, and to hell with damned rocks, and silts, and worn-out soils absent-mindedly left behind for those who would have to, have to I tell you, stay put in the cabin'd hollows and lazily watered-creeks. On the endlessly sulky blues-greens, the sullen smoky grey-black of mist-foamed rolling hills that echo the slight sound of the mountain wind tunnel, of the creakily-fiddled wind-song Appalachian night.
Or of diner stops, little narrow-aisled, pop-up-stool’d, formica counter-topped, red (mostly) imitation leather booth, smoked-filled cabooses of diners. Of now anchored, abandoned train porter-serviced, off-silver, off-green, off-red, off any faded color “greasy spoon” diners. Of daily house special meat loaf, gravy-slurp, steam-soggy carrots, and buttered mashed potato-fill up, Saturday night pot roast special, turkey club sandwich potato chips on the side, breakfast all day, coffee-fill-up, free refill, please, diners. Granddaddies to today’s more spacious back road highway locales, styled family-friendly but that still reek of meat loaf-steamed carrots- creamed mashed tater-fill. Spots then that spoke of rarely employed, hungry men, of shifty-eyed, expense account-weary traveling men, of high-benny, eyes-wide, mortgaged to the hilt, wife ran off with boyfriend, kids hardly know him, teamsters hauling American product to and fro and of other men not at ease in more eloquent, table-mannered, women-touched places. Those landscape old state and county side of the highway diners, complete with authentic surly, know-it-all-been-through-it-all, pencil-eared, steam-sweated uniform, maybe, cigarette-hanging from tired ruby red lips, heavily made-up waitress along the endless slag-heap, rusting railroad bed, sulphur-aired, grey-black smoke-belching , fiery furnace-blasting, headache metal-pounding, steel-eyed, coal dust-breathe, hog-butcher to the world, sinewy-muscled green-grey, moonless, Great Lakes night.
Or of two-bit road intersection stops, some rutted, pot-holed country road intersecting some mud-spattered, creviced backwater farm road, practically dirt roads barely removed from old time prairie pioneer day times, west-crazy pioneer times, ghost-crazy-pioneer days. Of fields, vast slightly rolling, actually very slightly rolling, endless yellow, yellow–glazed, yellow-tinged, yellow until you get sick of the sight of yellow, sick of the word yellow even, acres under cultivation to feed hungry cities, as if corn, or soy, or wheat, or manna itself could fill that empty-bellied feeling that is ablaze in the land. But we will deal with one hunger at a time. And dotted every so often with silos and barns and grain elevators for all to know the crops are in and ready to serve that physical hunger. Of half-sleep, half hungry-eye, city boy hungry eyes, unused to the dark, dangerous, sullen, unknown shadows, bed roll-unrolled, knapsack pillowed, sleep by the side of the wheat, soy, corn road ravine, and every once in a blue moon midnight car passings, snaggly blanket-covered, knap-sack head rested, cold-frozed, out in the great day corn yellow field beneath the blue black, beyond city sky black, starless Iowa night.
Or of the hard-hilled climb, and climb and climb, breathe taken away magic climb, crevice-etched, rock-interface, sore-footed magic mountain that no Thomas Mann can capture. Half-walked-half-driven, bouncing back seat, back seat of over-filled truck-driven, still rising up, no passing on the left, facing sheer-cliff’d, famous free-fall spots, still rising, rising colder, rising frozen colder, fearful of the sudden summer squalls, white out summer squalls. Shocking, I confess, beyond shocking to New England-hardened winter boy, then sudden sunshine floral bursts and jacket against the cold comes tumbling off. And I confess again, majestic, did I say majestic and beats visions of old Atlantic ocean swells at dawn crashing against harmless seawalls. Old pioneer-trekked, old pioneer-feared, old rutted wheeled, two-hearted remembrances, two-hearted but no returning back (it would be too painful to do again) remembrances as you slide out of Denver into the icy-white black rockymountainhigh night.
Of foot-swollen pleasures in some arid back canyon arroyo, etched in time told by reading its face, layer after layer, red, red-mucked, beige, beige-mucked, copper, copper-mucked, like some Georgia O'Keeffe dream painting out in the red, beige, copper black-devouring desert night. Sounds, primal sounds, of old dinosaur laments and one hundred generations of shamanic Native American pounding crying out for vengeance against the desecrations of the land. Against the cowboy badlands takeover, against the white rampages of the sacred soil. And of canyon-shadowed, flame-shadowed, wind swept, canteen stews simmering and smokey from the jet blue, orange flickering campfire. Of quiet, desert quiet, high desert quiet, of tumbleweed running dreams out in the pure sandstone-edged, grey-black Nevada night.
And then... .
the great Western shore, surf’s up, white, white wave-flecked, lapis-lazuli blue-flecked ocean, rust golden-gated, no return, no boat out, land's end, this is it coast highway, heading down or up now, heading up or down gas stationed, named and unnamed, side road diners, still caboose’d, ravine-edged sleep and beach sleeped, blue-pink American West night.
Yes, but there is more. No child vision but now of full blossom American West night, the San Francisco great American West night, of the be-bop, bop-bop, narrow-stepped, downstairs overflowed music cellar, shared in my time, the time of my time, by “beat” jazz, “hippie’d folk”, and howled poem, but at this minute jazz, high white note-blown, sexed sax-playing godman, unnamed, but like Lester Young’s own child jazz. Smoke-filled, blended meshed smokes of ganja and tobacco (and, maybe, of meshed pipe smokes of hashish and tobacco), ordered whisky-straight up, soon be-sotted, cheap, face-reddened wines, clanking coffee cups that speak of not tonight promise. High sexual intensity under wraps, tightly under wraps, swirls inside it own mad desire, black-dressed she (black dress, black sweater, black stockings, black shoes, black bag, black beret, black sunglasses, ah, sweet color scheme against white Madonna, white, secular Madonna alabaster skin. What do you want to bet black undergarments too, ah, but I am the soul of discretion, your imagination will have to do), promising shades of heat-glanced night. And later, later than night just before the darkest hour dawn, of poems poet’d, of freedom songs free-verse’d, of that sax-charged high white-note following out the door, out into the street, out the eternity lights of the great golden-gated night. I say, can you blame me?
Of later roads, the north Oregon hitchhike roads, the Redwood-strewn road not a trace of black-dressed she, she now of blue serge denim pants, of brown plaid flannel long-sleeved shirt, of some golfer’s dream floppy-brimmed hat, and of sturdy, thick-heeled work boots (undergarments again left to your imagination) against the hazards of summer snow squall Crater Lake. And now of slightly sun-burned face against the ravages of the road, against the parched sun-devil road that no ointments can relieve. And beyond later to goose-down bundled, hunter-hatted, thick work glove-clad, snowshoe-shod against the tremors of the great big eternal bump of the great Alaska highway. Can she blame me? Guess.
Ya, put it that way and what does that young co-worker, a dreamer of his own dreams, and rightly too, know of an old man’s fiercely-held, fiercely-defended, fiercely-dreamed beyond dreaming blue-pink dreams. Or of ancient blue-pink sorrows, sadnesses, angers, joys, longings and lovings, either.
Why should peace be excluded from St Patrick's Day?-globalpost
Why should peace be excluded from St Patrick's Day?-globalpost
Published on GlobalPost(http://www.globalpost.com)
GlobalPost Bloas > Commentary > Why should peace be excluded from St Patrick's Day?
Why should peace be excluded from St Patrick's Day?
By Guest Writer Created 1969-12-31 20:00
Beena Sarwar - Ash Center for Democratic Governance. Harvard Kennedy School [2]March
20,201216:35
Override Tifle:
Why should peace be excluded from St Patrick's Day?
Veterans for Peace vow to maintain their efforts to be included in the annual Boston parade. Beena Sarwar - Ash Center for Democratic Governance, Harvard Kennedy School
BOSTON — We don't have St. Patrick's Day parades in Pakistan, but we do have discrimination. And as elsewhere, our media often sidelines the struggles for justice and against discrimination. So it sounded familiar when I heard that the Allied War Veterans' Council (AWVC) had refused, for the second year running, to allow the Veterans for Peace (VFP) to participate in the "official" St. Patrick's Day parade in South Boston.
It was at an event titled "Bridging the Divide: USA/Pakistan" m where I was speaking on Saturday, sponsored by seven organizations, that moderator Cole Harrison of Massachusetts Peace Action made the announcement. VFP, he said, would hold its second St Patrick's Day Peace Parade the next day, Sunday.
As I started looking into it, it became clear that the alternate parade was not just about discrimination. It was also an effort to bring the peace message into the public domain.
"There is a heavy hand of media suppression coming from far above the City of Boston, wh'ich likes to think it is the City of Progress, with millions of dollars in new money flowing in; they don't want this controversy to surface showing the same attitudes of racism, homophobia and subservience to the military-industrial complex still prevail," Tony Flaherty of VFP, a retired naval officer with 25 years service told me. "The biggies in this country don't want it seen clearly that in South Boston and in the country, they've made "Peace" into a dirty word; it's certainly not profitable."
In 1993, the AWVC refused to allow Boston's gay and lesbian community to participate in the parade. A subsequent U.S. Supreme Court decision upheld the organizers' right to exclude anyone without assigning a reason (Hurley v. Irish-American Gay, Lesbian and Bisexual Group of Boston, 1995).
Thirteen VFP members marched, with permission from the Boston Police, at the end of the St. Patrick's Day Parade in 2003. They were protesting the imminent attack on Iraq, which took place two days later. The AWVC sued the Boston Police Department and got a court order stating that any future marches would have to be a mile behind the regular parade.
Last year, when the VFP application to participate in the parade was rejected, they got permission to hold their own parade, and invited Boston's lesbian gay bisexual transgender (LGBT) community. They applied again this year, and in solidarity, so did the LGBT rights groups Join the Impact and Mass Equality. The AWVC rejected all three.
So the VFP and LGBT groups held their own parade again, joined by more organizations from around the country, including the Occupy people. The estimated 1,500 to 2,000 participants were at least three times more than last year's 500. The numbers are likely to grow every year as word gets out.
Legally VFP may not have a leg to stand on, but morally they're spot on. They appear to have considerable support from the Boston community — including the 60 organizations that form the South Boston Association of Non-Profits. Everyone I spoke to on the sidelines of the St Pat's Day Parade in South Boston said that excluding them was discriminatory and wrong — some had been unaware of it.
"The parade is privately organized and they have the right to include who they want," said a young man standing with friends on a side street, watching the Peace Parade units literally warm up under a scorching sun as they waited to be allowed to move on. "But it's a shame."
"It's not right," added a young woman. "Why shouldn't they be allowed to march with the main parade ?"~
"It's great to be here regardless, and to feel the support we get from the people at the parade," said Doug Clifford, a grizzled Vietnam and Korea vet. "It's a positive feeling and that's what's important."
The police would undoubtedly be happier dealing with one parade rather than two. They even informally offered to get VFP into the main parade but "we said we will only walk with the official parade if our LGBT brothers and sisters are also allowed," said Pat Scanlon of VFP, who organized the Peace Parade.
"We're told we're too political," he added. "Too political? There's a parade all the politicians participate in after getting together for breakfast, with military bands, military hardware on display, military units marching — that's not political, and we're political because we've got the word 'peace' in our name along with Veterans'?"
VFP'? Tony Flaherty has publicly offered to debate "the credibility of the Allied War Veterans versus the Veterans for Peace. We (VFP) have Medal of Honor winners, Silver Stars, Bronze Stars, and Medals of Valor. The Allied War Veterans have nothing of substance - indeed their long term commander never left the country, was in the reserve for one year, and is the grand voice advocating young men go off to sacrifice for this country — or rather die in vain."
While we wait for the AWVC to take up this challenge, this has clearly become, as Scanlon says, "a fight for social justice, for standing up for principles and what is right."
"A hundred and fifty years ago, the Irish walked through the streets of Boston to protest discrimination — against the Irish. Today, they're using St Patrick's Day to exclude people like me, who stand for peace. But we're not going to give up. We'll apply to march in the parade next year and every year until they say yes. How long will they refuse us?"
Beena Sarwar, a journalist from Pakistan, is an associate fellow with the Ash Center for Democratic Governance at the Harvard Kennedy School. She is a freelance journalist and human rights activist based in Cambridge. In 2006, she was a Nieman Fellow in Journalism at Harvard. She blogs at www.beenasarwar.wordpress.com w. Twitter @beenasarwar
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Commentary 2012:03:2016:35 Lead Image Asset:
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Source URL (retrieved on 2012-03-21 17:26): http://www.globalpost.com/diSDatches/qlobalpost-bloqs/commentarv/whv-should-peace-be-excluded-st-patricks-dav
Links:
[1] http://www.globalpost.com/dispatches/globalpost-blogs/commentary/why-should-peace-be-excluded-st-patricks-
day
[2] http://www.globalpost.com/bio/guest-writers/articles
[3] http://www.justicewithpeace.org/bridging-divide
[4] http ://www. beenasarwar. wordpress. com
[5] http://www.globalpost.com/photo/5696920/boston-st-patricks-parade-2012-3-20
Published on GlobalPost(http://www.globalpost.com)
GlobalPost Bloas > Commentary > Why should peace be excluded from St Patrick's Day?
Why should peace be excluded from St Patrick's Day?
By Guest Writer Created 1969-12-31 20:00
Beena Sarwar - Ash Center for Democratic Governance. Harvard Kennedy School [2]March
20,201216:35
Override Tifle:
Why should peace be excluded from St Patrick's Day?
Veterans for Peace vow to maintain their efforts to be included in the annual Boston parade. Beena Sarwar - Ash Center for Democratic Governance, Harvard Kennedy School
BOSTON — We don't have St. Patrick's Day parades in Pakistan, but we do have discrimination. And as elsewhere, our media often sidelines the struggles for justice and against discrimination. So it sounded familiar when I heard that the Allied War Veterans' Council (AWVC) had refused, for the second year running, to allow the Veterans for Peace (VFP) to participate in the "official" St. Patrick's Day parade in South Boston.
It was at an event titled "Bridging the Divide: USA/Pakistan" m where I was speaking on Saturday, sponsored by seven organizations, that moderator Cole Harrison of Massachusetts Peace Action made the announcement. VFP, he said, would hold its second St Patrick's Day Peace Parade the next day, Sunday.
As I started looking into it, it became clear that the alternate parade was not just about discrimination. It was also an effort to bring the peace message into the public domain.
"There is a heavy hand of media suppression coming from far above the City of Boston, wh'ich likes to think it is the City of Progress, with millions of dollars in new money flowing in; they don't want this controversy to surface showing the same attitudes of racism, homophobia and subservience to the military-industrial complex still prevail," Tony Flaherty of VFP, a retired naval officer with 25 years service told me. "The biggies in this country don't want it seen clearly that in South Boston and in the country, they've made "Peace" into a dirty word; it's certainly not profitable."
In 1993, the AWVC refused to allow Boston's gay and lesbian community to participate in the parade. A subsequent U.S. Supreme Court decision upheld the organizers' right to exclude anyone without assigning a reason (Hurley v. Irish-American Gay, Lesbian and Bisexual Group of Boston, 1995).
Thirteen VFP members marched, with permission from the Boston Police, at the end of the St. Patrick's Day Parade in 2003. They were protesting the imminent attack on Iraq, which took place two days later. The AWVC sued the Boston Police Department and got a court order stating that any future marches would have to be a mile behind the regular parade.
Last year, when the VFP application to participate in the parade was rejected, they got permission to hold their own parade, and invited Boston's lesbian gay bisexual transgender (LGBT) community. They applied again this year, and in solidarity, so did the LGBT rights groups Join the Impact and Mass Equality. The AWVC rejected all three.
So the VFP and LGBT groups held their own parade again, joined by more organizations from around the country, including the Occupy people. The estimated 1,500 to 2,000 participants were at least three times more than last year's 500. The numbers are likely to grow every year as word gets out.
Legally VFP may not have a leg to stand on, but morally they're spot on. They appear to have considerable support from the Boston community — including the 60 organizations that form the South Boston Association of Non-Profits. Everyone I spoke to on the sidelines of the St Pat's Day Parade in South Boston said that excluding them was discriminatory and wrong — some had been unaware of it.
"The parade is privately organized and they have the right to include who they want," said a young man standing with friends on a side street, watching the Peace Parade units literally warm up under a scorching sun as they waited to be allowed to move on. "But it's a shame."
"It's not right," added a young woman. "Why shouldn't they be allowed to march with the main parade ?"~
"It's great to be here regardless, and to feel the support we get from the people at the parade," said Doug Clifford, a grizzled Vietnam and Korea vet. "It's a positive feeling and that's what's important."
The police would undoubtedly be happier dealing with one parade rather than two. They even informally offered to get VFP into the main parade but "we said we will only walk with the official parade if our LGBT brothers and sisters are also allowed," said Pat Scanlon of VFP, who organized the Peace Parade.
"We're told we're too political," he added. "Too political? There's a parade all the politicians participate in after getting together for breakfast, with military bands, military hardware on display, military units marching — that's not political, and we're political because we've got the word 'peace' in our name along with Veterans'?"
VFP'? Tony Flaherty has publicly offered to debate "the credibility of the Allied War Veterans versus the Veterans for Peace. We (VFP) have Medal of Honor winners, Silver Stars, Bronze Stars, and Medals of Valor. The Allied War Veterans have nothing of substance - indeed their long term commander never left the country, was in the reserve for one year, and is the grand voice advocating young men go off to sacrifice for this country — or rather die in vain."
While we wait for the AWVC to take up this challenge, this has clearly become, as Scanlon says, "a fight for social justice, for standing up for principles and what is right."
"A hundred and fifty years ago, the Irish walked through the streets of Boston to protest discrimination — against the Irish. Today, they're using St Patrick's Day to exclude people like me, who stand for peace. But we're not going to give up. We'll apply to march in the parade next year and every year until they say yes. How long will they refuse us?"
Beena Sarwar, a journalist from Pakistan, is an associate fellow with the Ash Center for Democratic Governance at the Harvard Kennedy School. She is a freelance journalist and human rights activist based in Cambridge. In 2006, she was a Nieman Fellow in Journalism at Harvard. She blogs at www.beenasarwar.wordpress.com w. Twitter @beenasarwar
Other Section Terms:
Commentary 2012:03:2016:35 Lead Image Asset:
Boston st patricks parade 2012 3 20 rsi
http://www.globalpost.com/dispatches/globalpost-blogs/commentary/why-should-peace-be-excluded-st-patricks-day
Commentary
Copyright 2012 Global Post- International News
Source URL (retrieved on 2012-03-21 17:26): http://www.globalpost.com/diSDatches/qlobalpost-bloqs/commentarv/whv-should-peace-be-excluded-st-patricks-dav
Links:
[1] http://www.globalpost.com/dispatches/globalpost-blogs/commentary/why-should-peace-be-excluded-st-patricks-
day
[2] http://www.globalpost.com/bio/guest-writers/articles
[3] http://www.justicewithpeace.org/bridging-divide
[4] http ://www. beenasarwar. wordpress. com
[5] http://www.globalpost.com/photo/5696920/boston-st-patricks-parade-2012-3-20
occupy may 1ST-A day without the 99%-All Out In Boston Tuesday May 1st
occupy may 1ST-A day without the 99%
We will strike for a better future!
We will strike for OUR HUMAN RIGHTS to:
Healthcare, Education, and Housing Economic, Social and Environmental
Justice
Labor Rights Freedom from Police Brutality and Profiling
Immigrant Rights
Women & LGBTQ Rights
Racial & Gender Equality
Clean water and healthy food to feed our families!
We call for a democratic standard of living for
all peoples! Peace in our communities with JUSTICE!
What will you strike for? Rally at noon, City Hall Plaza, Boston!
for more info: www.bostonmayday.org, www.occupymayist.org, www.occupyboston.org, or find us on facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/boston-may-day-committee
We will strike for a better future!
We will strike for OUR HUMAN RIGHTS to:
Healthcare, Education, and Housing Economic, Social and Environmental
Justice
Labor Rights Freedom from Police Brutality and Profiling
Immigrant Rights
Women & LGBTQ Rights
Racial & Gender Equality
Clean water and healthy food to feed our families!
We call for a democratic standard of living for
all peoples! Peace in our communities with JUSTICE!
What will you strike for? Rally at noon, City Hall Plaza, Boston!
for more info: www.bostonmayday.org, www.occupymayist.org, www.occupyboston.org, or find us on facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/boston-may-day-committee
All Out On May Day 2012: A Day Of International Working Class Solidarity Actions- An Open Letter To The Working People Of Boston From A Fellow Worker
Click on the headline to link to the Boston May Day Coalition website.
All Out For May 1st-International Workers Day 2012!
Why Working People Need To Show Their Power On May Day 2012
Wage cuts, long work hours, steep consumer price rises, unemployment, small or no pensions, little or no paid vacation time, plenty of poor and inadequate housing, homelessness, and wide-spread sicknesses as a result of a poor medical system or no health insurance. I will stop there although I could go on and on. Sounds familiar though, sounds like your situation or that of someone you know, right?
Words, or words like them, are taken daily from today’s global headlines.
But these were also similar to the conditions our forebears faced in America back in the 1880s when this same vicious ruling class was called, and rightly so, “the robber barons,” and threatened, as one of their kind, Jay Gould, stated in a fit of candor, “to hire one half of the working class to kill the other half,” so that they could maintain their luxury in peace. That too has not changed.
What did change then is that our forebears fought back, fought back long and hard, starting with the fight connected with the heroic Haymarket Martyrs in 1886 for the eight-hour day symbolized each year by a May Day celebration of working class power. We need to reassert that claim. This May Day let us revive that tradition as we individually act around our separate grievances and strike, strike like the furies, collectively against the robber barons of the 21st century.
No question over the past several years (really decades but now it is just more public and right in our face) American working people have taken it on the chin, taken it on the chin in every possible way. Start off with massive job losses, heavy job losses in the service and manufacturing sectors (and jobs that are not coming back except as “race to the bottom” low wage, two-tier jobs dividing younger workers from older workers like at General Electric or the auto plants). Move on to paying for the seemingly never-ending bail–out of banks, other financial institutions and corporations “too big to fail,” home foreclosures and those “under water,” effective tax increases (since the rich refuse to pay, in some cases literally paying nothing, we pay). And finish up with mountains of consumer debt for everything from modern necessities to just daily get-bys, and college student loan debt as a life-time deadweight around the neck of the kids there is little to glow about in the harsh light of the “American Dream.”
Add to that the double (and triple) troubles facing immigrants, racial and ethnic minorities, and many women and the grievances voiced long ago in the Declaration of Independence seem like just so much whining. In short, it is not secret that working people have faced, are facing and, apparently, will continue to face an erosion of their material well-being for the foreseeable future something not seen by most people since the 1930s Great Depression, the time of our grandparents (or, for some of us, great-grandparents).
That is this condition will continue unless we take some lessons from those same 1930s and struggle, struggle like hell, against the ruling class that seems to have all the card decks stacked against us. Struggle like they did in places like Minneapolis, San Francisco, Toledo, Flint, and Detroit. Those labor-centered struggles demonstrated the social power of working people to hit the “economic royalists” (the name coined for the ruling class of that day by their front-man Franklin Delano Roosevelt, FDR) to shut the bosses down where it hurts- in their pocketbooks and property.
The bosses will let us rant all day, will gladly take (and throw away) all our petitions, will let us use their “free-speech” parks (up to a point as we have found out via the Occupy movement), and curse them to eternity as long as we don’t touch their production, “perks,” and profits. Moreover an inspired fight like the actions proposed for this May Day 2012 can help new generations of working people, organized, unorganized, unemployed, homeless, houseless, and just plain desperate, help themselves to get out from under. All Out On May Day 2012.
I have listed some of the problems we face now to some of our demand that should be raised every day, not just May Day. See if you agree and if you do take to the streets on May Day with us. We demand:
*Hands Off Our Public Worker Unions! No More Wisconsins! Hands Off All Our Unions!
* Give the unemployed work! Billions for public works projects to fix America’s broken infrastructure (bridges, roads, sewer and water systems, etc.)!
*End the endless wars- Troops And Mercenaries Out Of Afghanistan (and Iraq)!-U.S Hands Off Iran! Hands Off The World!
* Full citizenship rights for all those who made it here no matter how they got here!
* A drastic increase in the minimum wage and big wage increases for all workers!
* A moratorium on home foreclosures! No evictions!
* A moratorium on student loan debt! Free, quality higher education for all! Create 100, 200, many publicly-supported Harvards!
*No increases in public transportation fares! No transportation worker lay-offs! For free quality public transportation!
To order to flex our collective bottom up power on May 1, 2012 we will be organizing a wide-ranging series of mass collective participatory actions:
*We will be organizing within our unions- or informal workplace organizations where there is no union - a one-day strike around some, or all, of the above-mentioned demands.
*We will be organizing at workplaces where a strike is not possible for workers to call in sick, or take a personal day, as part of a coordinated “sick-out”.
*We will be organizing students from kindergarten to graduate school and the off-hand left-wing think tank to walk-out of their schools (or not show up in the first place), set up campus picket lines, and to rally at a central location.
*We will be calling in our communities for a mass consumer boycott, and with local business support where possible, refuse to make purchases on that day.
All out on May Day 2012.
All Out For May 1st-International Workers Day 2012!
Why Working People Need To Show Their Power On May Day 2012
Wage cuts, long work hours, steep consumer price rises, unemployment, small or no pensions, little or no paid vacation time, plenty of poor and inadequate housing, homelessness, and wide-spread sicknesses as a result of a poor medical system or no health insurance. I will stop there although I could go on and on. Sounds familiar though, sounds like your situation or that of someone you know, right?
Words, or words like them, are taken daily from today’s global headlines.
But these were also similar to the conditions our forebears faced in America back in the 1880s when this same vicious ruling class was called, and rightly so, “the robber barons,” and threatened, as one of their kind, Jay Gould, stated in a fit of candor, “to hire one half of the working class to kill the other half,” so that they could maintain their luxury in peace. That too has not changed.
What did change then is that our forebears fought back, fought back long and hard, starting with the fight connected with the heroic Haymarket Martyrs in 1886 for the eight-hour day symbolized each year by a May Day celebration of working class power. We need to reassert that claim. This May Day let us revive that tradition as we individually act around our separate grievances and strike, strike like the furies, collectively against the robber barons of the 21st century.
No question over the past several years (really decades but now it is just more public and right in our face) American working people have taken it on the chin, taken it on the chin in every possible way. Start off with massive job losses, heavy job losses in the service and manufacturing sectors (and jobs that are not coming back except as “race to the bottom” low wage, two-tier jobs dividing younger workers from older workers like at General Electric or the auto plants). Move on to paying for the seemingly never-ending bail–out of banks, other financial institutions and corporations “too big to fail,” home foreclosures and those “under water,” effective tax increases (since the rich refuse to pay, in some cases literally paying nothing, we pay). And finish up with mountains of consumer debt for everything from modern necessities to just daily get-bys, and college student loan debt as a life-time deadweight around the neck of the kids there is little to glow about in the harsh light of the “American Dream.”
Add to that the double (and triple) troubles facing immigrants, racial and ethnic minorities, and many women and the grievances voiced long ago in the Declaration of Independence seem like just so much whining. In short, it is not secret that working people have faced, are facing and, apparently, will continue to face an erosion of their material well-being for the foreseeable future something not seen by most people since the 1930s Great Depression, the time of our grandparents (or, for some of us, great-grandparents).
That is this condition will continue unless we take some lessons from those same 1930s and struggle, struggle like hell, against the ruling class that seems to have all the card decks stacked against us. Struggle like they did in places like Minneapolis, San Francisco, Toledo, Flint, and Detroit. Those labor-centered struggles demonstrated the social power of working people to hit the “economic royalists” (the name coined for the ruling class of that day by their front-man Franklin Delano Roosevelt, FDR) to shut the bosses down where it hurts- in their pocketbooks and property.
The bosses will let us rant all day, will gladly take (and throw away) all our petitions, will let us use their “free-speech” parks (up to a point as we have found out via the Occupy movement), and curse them to eternity as long as we don’t touch their production, “perks,” and profits. Moreover an inspired fight like the actions proposed for this May Day 2012 can help new generations of working people, organized, unorganized, unemployed, homeless, houseless, and just plain desperate, help themselves to get out from under. All Out On May Day 2012.
I have listed some of the problems we face now to some of our demand that should be raised every day, not just May Day. See if you agree and if you do take to the streets on May Day with us. We demand:
*Hands Off Our Public Worker Unions! No More Wisconsins! Hands Off All Our Unions!
* Give the unemployed work! Billions for public works projects to fix America’s broken infrastructure (bridges, roads, sewer and water systems, etc.)!
*End the endless wars- Troops And Mercenaries Out Of Afghanistan (and Iraq)!-U.S Hands Off Iran! Hands Off The World!
* Full citizenship rights for all those who made it here no matter how they got here!
* A drastic increase in the minimum wage and big wage increases for all workers!
* A moratorium on home foreclosures! No evictions!
* A moratorium on student loan debt! Free, quality higher education for all! Create 100, 200, many publicly-supported Harvards!
*No increases in public transportation fares! No transportation worker lay-offs! For free quality public transportation!
To order to flex our collective bottom up power on May 1, 2012 we will be organizing a wide-ranging series of mass collective participatory actions:
*We will be organizing within our unions- or informal workplace organizations where there is no union - a one-day strike around some, or all, of the above-mentioned demands.
*We will be organizing at workplaces where a strike is not possible for workers to call in sick, or take a personal day, as part of a coordinated “sick-out”.
*We will be organizing students from kindergarten to graduate school and the off-hand left-wing think tank to walk-out of their schools (or not show up in the first place), set up campus picket lines, and to rally at a central location.
*We will be calling in our communities for a mass consumer boycott, and with local business support where possible, refuse to make purchases on that day.
All out on May Day 2012.
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