Click on the title to link to the website mentioned in the headline for the latest news and opinion from that site.
Markin comment (re-post from July 26, 2011):
On a day, July 26th, important in the history of the Cuban revolutionary movement it is also important, as always, to remember that the defense of the Cuban revolution here in the United States, the "heart of the beast", starts with the defense of the Cuban Five.
Markin comment (reposted from 2010)
In “surfing” the National Jericho Movement Website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck, whom I had read about in a The Rag Blog post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal, are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site, seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more public fight for their freedom.
That last notion set me to the task at hand. Readers of this space know that I am a long- time supporter of class-war prisoners as part of the process of advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and disagreements as a separate matter. What matters here and now is the old Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.
Note: This list, right now, is composed of class-war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their cases in the comment section. Likewise any cases, internationally, that come to your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All Class-War Prisoners Now!
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
A Non-Communist View Of The Formation Of The American Communsit Party- Thedore Draper's "The Roots Of American Communism- A Book Review
Click on the headline to link to the James P.Cannon Internet Archives segment, Notes To An Historian, as a welcome supplement to Theodore Draper's important work.
BOOK REVIEW
THE ROOTS OF AMERICAN COMMUNISM, THEODORE DRAPER, The Viking Press, New York, 1957
As an addition to the historical record of the period from the Russian Revolution of 1917 to the formation and consolidation of the legal, open party in 1923 The Roots of American Communism and its companion volume detailing the period from 1923 to 1929-Soviet Russia and American Communism (which will be reviewed separately) – is the definitive scholarly study on the early history of the American Communist Party. The author, an ex-communist but at the time of writing an anti-communist, unlike other former communists nevertheless does a thorough job or presenting the personalities and issues in a reasonably straightforward manner. Given that these volumes were researched and published during the heart of the Cold War hysteria against the Soviet Union in the 1950’s this is not faint praise.
Also useful for this period in conjunction with these two volumes and to round them out, from the pro-Communist partisan perspective of one of the main leaders, is James P. Cannon’s The First Ten Years of American Communism and the Prometheus Research Library’s James P. Cannon and the Early Communist Movement. Absent from Mr. Draper’s analysis is any real feel for why the early leaders and rank and file of the party put themselves on the line, faced harassment, imprisonment or worst to create an American Bolshevik party. While there is no dearth of memoirs of other participants in the early movement, Cannon’s analysis most honestly fills that gap.
That said, why must militants read these works today? After the demise of the former Soviet Union and Eastern Europe anything positively related to Communist studies has been deeply discounted in the academy and in bourgeois politics. Nevertheless, for better or worse, the American Communist Party (and its offshoots) needs to be studied as an ultimately flawed example of a party that failed in its mission to create a radical version of society in America when it became merely a tool of Soviet diplomacy in the late 1920s. Now is the time for militants to study the mistakes and draw the lessons of that history.
For those not familiar with this period a few helpful introductory chapters by Mr. Draper give an analysis of the forces that made up the radical scene prior to World War I. Those forces included the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), independent syndicalists influenced by the French movement and the anti-war left-wing of the Socialist party, including various foreign language federations. Thus, in its formative period the American party (or parties, to be more correct) gathered all those fresh elements which responded to the Bolshevik victory in Russia in 1917, saw it as the wave of the future and wanted to establish that kind of socialism here. As this reviewer has noted elsewhere, while those diffuse forces proved to be difficult to organize, this mix provided for a better internal party life than, say, in England where the Celtic and anarcho-syndicalist elements were not recruited resulting in a ‘stillborn’ party.
Mr. Draper also addresses the various important faction fights which occurred inside the party. To make sense of this is sometimes no simple task. That overview also highlights some of the now more obscure personalities, where they stood on the issues and insights into the significance of the crucial early fights in the party. These include questions which are still relevant today; a legal vs. an underground party; the proper attitude toward parliamentary politics; support to third party bourgeois candidates; trade union policy; class war defense as well as how to rein in the intense internal struggle of the various factions for organizational control of the party.
This presentation makes it somewhat easier for those not well-versed in the intricacies of the political disputes which wracked the early American party to understand how these questions tended to pull the party in on itself. In many ways, given the undisputed rise of American imperialism in the immediate aftermath of World War I, this is a story of the ‘dog days’ of the party. Unfortunately, that American rise combined with the international ramifications of the internal disputes in the Russian Communist Party and in the Communist International shipwrecked the party as a revolutionary party toward the end of this period. That subject is more fully addressed in the second volume. Read this book.
BOOK REVIEW
THE ROOTS OF AMERICAN COMMUNISM, THEODORE DRAPER, The Viking Press, New York, 1957
As an addition to the historical record of the period from the Russian Revolution of 1917 to the formation and consolidation of the legal, open party in 1923 The Roots of American Communism and its companion volume detailing the period from 1923 to 1929-Soviet Russia and American Communism (which will be reviewed separately) – is the definitive scholarly study on the early history of the American Communist Party. The author, an ex-communist but at the time of writing an anti-communist, unlike other former communists nevertheless does a thorough job or presenting the personalities and issues in a reasonably straightforward manner. Given that these volumes were researched and published during the heart of the Cold War hysteria against the Soviet Union in the 1950’s this is not faint praise.
Also useful for this period in conjunction with these two volumes and to round them out, from the pro-Communist partisan perspective of one of the main leaders, is James P. Cannon’s The First Ten Years of American Communism and the Prometheus Research Library’s James P. Cannon and the Early Communist Movement. Absent from Mr. Draper’s analysis is any real feel for why the early leaders and rank and file of the party put themselves on the line, faced harassment, imprisonment or worst to create an American Bolshevik party. While there is no dearth of memoirs of other participants in the early movement, Cannon’s analysis most honestly fills that gap.
That said, why must militants read these works today? After the demise of the former Soviet Union and Eastern Europe anything positively related to Communist studies has been deeply discounted in the academy and in bourgeois politics. Nevertheless, for better or worse, the American Communist Party (and its offshoots) needs to be studied as an ultimately flawed example of a party that failed in its mission to create a radical version of society in America when it became merely a tool of Soviet diplomacy in the late 1920s. Now is the time for militants to study the mistakes and draw the lessons of that history.
For those not familiar with this period a few helpful introductory chapters by Mr. Draper give an analysis of the forces that made up the radical scene prior to World War I. Those forces included the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), independent syndicalists influenced by the French movement and the anti-war left-wing of the Socialist party, including various foreign language federations. Thus, in its formative period the American party (or parties, to be more correct) gathered all those fresh elements which responded to the Bolshevik victory in Russia in 1917, saw it as the wave of the future and wanted to establish that kind of socialism here. As this reviewer has noted elsewhere, while those diffuse forces proved to be difficult to organize, this mix provided for a better internal party life than, say, in England where the Celtic and anarcho-syndicalist elements were not recruited resulting in a ‘stillborn’ party.
Mr. Draper also addresses the various important faction fights which occurred inside the party. To make sense of this is sometimes no simple task. That overview also highlights some of the now more obscure personalities, where they stood on the issues and insights into the significance of the crucial early fights in the party. These include questions which are still relevant today; a legal vs. an underground party; the proper attitude toward parliamentary politics; support to third party bourgeois candidates; trade union policy; class war defense as well as how to rein in the intense internal struggle of the various factions for organizational control of the party.
This presentation makes it somewhat easier for those not well-versed in the intricacies of the political disputes which wracked the early American party to understand how these questions tended to pull the party in on itself. In many ways, given the undisputed rise of American imperialism in the immediate aftermath of World War I, this is a story of the ‘dog days’ of the party. Unfortunately, that American rise combined with the international ramifications of the internal disputes in the Russian Communist Party and in the Communist International shipwrecked the party as a revolutionary party toward the end of this period. That subject is more fully addressed in the second volume. Read this book.
From The Pen Of American Communist Leader James P. Cannon- The Cause That Passes Through The Prisons- A Book Review
Click on the headline to link to the James P. Cannon Internet Archives.
Book Review
LETTERS FROM PRISON, JAMES P. CANNON, Pathfinder Press, New York, 1973
If you are interested in the history of the American Left or are a militant trying to understand some of the past lessons of our history concerning the communist response to various social and labor questions this book is for you. This book is part of a continuing series of volumes of the writings of James P. Cannon that were published by the organization he founded in the 1930s, the Socialist Workers Party, in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Cannon died in 1974. Look in this space for other related reviews of this series of documents on and by an important American Communist.
In their introduction the editors motivate the purpose for the publication of the book by stating the Cannon was the finest Communist leader that America had ever produced. This an intriguing question. The editors trace their political lineage back to Cannon’s leadership of the early Communist Party and later after his expulsion to the Trotskyist Socialist Workers Party so their perspective is obvious. What does the documentation provided here show? This certainly is the period of Cannon’s political maturation after a long and fruitful political collaboration working with LeonTrotsky, the exiled Russian revolutionary.
The period under discussion in his letters to his long time companion Rose Krasner- the years of World War II after Cannon and 17 other leaders of the Socialist Workers Party had been indicted, convicted and refused appeal by the United States Supreme Court under the then new Smith Act provisions and finally were imprisoned- demonstrate a continued commitment to the goals of revolutionary socialism and a desire to fight for those goals. One thing is sure- in his prime, which includes this period- Cannon had the instincts to want to lead a revolution and had the evident capacity to do so. That he never had an opportunity to lead a revolution is his personal tragedy and ours as well.
When the American Government under Franklin D. Roosevelt goaded on by one of his favorite abject ‘labor lieutenants of capitalism’ , Daniel Tobin President of the International Teamsters Union, went after the real opponents of the second imperialist war known as World war II, the Socialist Workers Party and the Teamsters local in Minneapolis, they went to the right address. Unfortunately, unlike in World War I, those organizations were politically virtually the only ones in opposition to th egoverment from the left. The American Socialist Party and the American Communist Party- the latter after a short opposition during the infamous Hitler-Stalin Pact- had both made their peace with imperialism. If anything those organizations were the chief labor cheerleaders of the prosecutions. As an aside, but indicative of the nature of that organization, the Workers Party led by Max Shachtman, which had split from the SWP in 1940 over the question of defense of the Soviet Union, did not face government prosecution.
This volume of letters from prison by James P. Cannon, leader of the Socialist Workers Party are testimony to what happens to revolutionaries when they fundamentally oppose a bourgeois government on its most cherished right, the right to make war-they go to jail. Kicking and screaming, yes, and using every avenue to avoid that situation but when the time comes that is what they do. In no case do they flinch from the consequences of the necessary action to oppose war. This comes with the territory of being a revolutionary. While few today remember such boldness, militants in the face of opposition to the current Iraq War would do well to honor that commitment by the Minneapolis 18.
As his letters indicate, political people do not roll over when in prison but within the limited circumstances they find themselves in act as political people and carry on as best they can –whether it is Czarist, fascist, Stalinist or bourgeois prisons. In the present case it was an advantage that many of the party leaders were with Cannon and could essentially form a leadership in exile to supplement the official leadership left behind on the outside. Of course all things being equal prison definitely cuts into the effectiveness of a revolutionary but the enforced idleness from the outside struggle is a time to study and reflection, which Cannon did, very ambitiously and systematically. Through his companion Rose Karsner and other sources Cannon kept up with internal party affairs and made plans for the future of the party.
Finally, it is rather ironic that Cannon, who was the guiding force in the American Communist Party’s class struggle defense organization-the International Labor Defense- in the mid-1920’s should need the services of the Socialist Workers Party’s class struggle defense organization -the Non-Partisan Labor Defense. What Cannon said in the 1920’s applied to his own case. The struggle of the class-war prisoners- the cause that passes through the prisons- is the concern of the whole working class. An injury to one is an injury to all. That slogan is still valid for today’s militants to organize around.
Book Review
LETTERS FROM PRISON, JAMES P. CANNON, Pathfinder Press, New York, 1973
If you are interested in the history of the American Left or are a militant trying to understand some of the past lessons of our history concerning the communist response to various social and labor questions this book is for you. This book is part of a continuing series of volumes of the writings of James P. Cannon that were published by the organization he founded in the 1930s, the Socialist Workers Party, in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Cannon died in 1974. Look in this space for other related reviews of this series of documents on and by an important American Communist.
In their introduction the editors motivate the purpose for the publication of the book by stating the Cannon was the finest Communist leader that America had ever produced. This an intriguing question. The editors trace their political lineage back to Cannon’s leadership of the early Communist Party and later after his expulsion to the Trotskyist Socialist Workers Party so their perspective is obvious. What does the documentation provided here show? This certainly is the period of Cannon’s political maturation after a long and fruitful political collaboration working with LeonTrotsky, the exiled Russian revolutionary.
The period under discussion in his letters to his long time companion Rose Krasner- the years of World War II after Cannon and 17 other leaders of the Socialist Workers Party had been indicted, convicted and refused appeal by the United States Supreme Court under the then new Smith Act provisions and finally were imprisoned- demonstrate a continued commitment to the goals of revolutionary socialism and a desire to fight for those goals. One thing is sure- in his prime, which includes this period- Cannon had the instincts to want to lead a revolution and had the evident capacity to do so. That he never had an opportunity to lead a revolution is his personal tragedy and ours as well.
When the American Government under Franklin D. Roosevelt goaded on by one of his favorite abject ‘labor lieutenants of capitalism’ , Daniel Tobin President of the International Teamsters Union, went after the real opponents of the second imperialist war known as World war II, the Socialist Workers Party and the Teamsters local in Minneapolis, they went to the right address. Unfortunately, unlike in World War I, those organizations were politically virtually the only ones in opposition to th egoverment from the left. The American Socialist Party and the American Communist Party- the latter after a short opposition during the infamous Hitler-Stalin Pact- had both made their peace with imperialism. If anything those organizations were the chief labor cheerleaders of the prosecutions. As an aside, but indicative of the nature of that organization, the Workers Party led by Max Shachtman, which had split from the SWP in 1940 over the question of defense of the Soviet Union, did not face government prosecution.
This volume of letters from prison by James P. Cannon, leader of the Socialist Workers Party are testimony to what happens to revolutionaries when they fundamentally oppose a bourgeois government on its most cherished right, the right to make war-they go to jail. Kicking and screaming, yes, and using every avenue to avoid that situation but when the time comes that is what they do. In no case do they flinch from the consequences of the necessary action to oppose war. This comes with the territory of being a revolutionary. While few today remember such boldness, militants in the face of opposition to the current Iraq War would do well to honor that commitment by the Minneapolis 18.
As his letters indicate, political people do not roll over when in prison but within the limited circumstances they find themselves in act as political people and carry on as best they can –whether it is Czarist, fascist, Stalinist or bourgeois prisons. In the present case it was an advantage that many of the party leaders were with Cannon and could essentially form a leadership in exile to supplement the official leadership left behind on the outside. Of course all things being equal prison definitely cuts into the effectiveness of a revolutionary but the enforced idleness from the outside struggle is a time to study and reflection, which Cannon did, very ambitiously and systematically. Through his companion Rose Karsner and other sources Cannon kept up with internal party affairs and made plans for the future of the party.
Finally, it is rather ironic that Cannon, who was the guiding force in the American Communist Party’s class struggle defense organization-the International Labor Defense- in the mid-1920’s should need the services of the Socialist Workers Party’s class struggle defense organization -the Non-Partisan Labor Defense. What Cannon said in the 1920’s applied to his own case. The struggle of the class-war prisoners- the cause that passes through the prisons- is the concern of the whole working class. An injury to one is an injury to all. That slogan is still valid for today’s militants to organize around.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
From #Un-Occupied Boston (#Un-Tomemonos Boston)-General Assembly-An Embryo Of An Alternate Government Gone Wrong-What Happens When We Do Not Learn The Lessons Of History- The Pre-1848 Socialist Movement-Auguste Blanqui 1834-First issue of “Le Libérateur”
Click on the headline to link to the Occupy Boston General Assembly Minutes website. Occupy Boston started at 6:00 PM, September 30, 2011.
Markin comment:
I will post any updates from that site if there are any serious discussions of the way forward for the Occupy movement or, more importantly, any analysis of the now atrophied and dysfunctional General Assembly concept. In the meantime I will continue with the “Lessons From History “ series started in the Fall of 2011 with Karl Marx’s The Civil War In France-1871 (The defense of the Paris Commune). Right now this series is focused on the European socialist movement before the Revolutions of 1848.
****
An Injury To One Is An Injury To All!-Defend The Occupy Movement And All Occupiers! Drop All Charges Against All Occupy Protesters Everywhere!
********
Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It Back! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
********
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 for public and private workers to unionize.
* Defend the working classes! No union dues for Democratic (or the stray Republican) candidates. Spent the dough instead on organizing the unorganized and on other labor-specific causes (good example, the November, 2011 anti-union recall referendum in Ohio, bad example the Wisconsin gubernatorial recall race in June 2012).
*End the endless wars!- Immediate, Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops (And Mercenaries) From Afghanistan! Hands Off Pakistan! Hands Off Iran! U.S. 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!
***********
Auguste Blanqui 1834-First issue of “Le Libérateur”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Source: Oeuvres, texts rassemblés et presentés par Dominique de Luz. Nancy, Presses Universitaires de Nancy, 1993;
Translated: for marxists.org by Mitchell Abidor
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Goal of the newspaper
Of all the exclusions that weigh on the citizen without a fortune, the most painful and the one most bitterly felt is that which prohibits him from publishing his thoughts. One can be consoled for not participating in the election of a deputy or a municipal functionary. But we are profoundly wounded by the evil designs of a legislation that restricts thought when that thought doesn’t have the insolent pass handed out by wealth. Those men devoted to defending the principle of equality will never forgive the ministers whose popular names served as a cloak for that law of security deposits and franking that makes the press a slave to the opulent classes, for it is they who bear the responsibility for that irreparable fault. And when, carried away by the boiling up of indignation against triumphant iniquity they raise their voices, an iron glove smashes the words on their lips. They are forbidden to take in hand the interests of the oppressed: they don’t have the right to that. It’s a right that only belongs to the rich; one must be rich in order to better identify with the poor, and riches alone gives the guts to feel and express their sufferings.
This newspaper is a protest against force’s insulting derision. A lone citizen, without money, without a sou put away, undertakes to brave the prohibition imposed by the aristocracy of the ecu against the poor man who dares to think. With his health destroyed, barely out of the prison where a verdict had him expiate the cries he raised up in favor of exploited workers, his hands still marked by the imprint of handcuffs, he today again takes up arms. And he will write, having ceaselessly before his eyes the unfortunate brothers that he left behind in those sad tombs. He is not one of those men who, in the midst of a society torn apart by passions, claims to feel no passion; who in order not to displease selfish dominators protects himself against all convictions as if they were evil things, and affects to maintain a cowardly impartiality between those who suffer and those who cause suffering. The only role appropriate for an honest man is that of loudly avowing his affections and his hatreds. One should feel sorry for those who boast of the fact that they neither love nor hate anyone, for if they are telling the truth they have nothing in their breasts. And if they lie, what authority remains to their words?
Those of Le Liberateur will be frank, with neither reticence nor hesitations. On one hand it will make an effort to expose in simple, clear, and precise terms why the people are unhappy and how they can cease to be so. It will explain the nature of the relationships that exist today between the master and the worker, the social question that virtually on its own constitutes all of political economy, and about which professors say barely a word. And at the same time, addressing itself to men whose profound meditations turn them from the hustle and bustle of the moment in order to embrace from on high all of humanity in its past and its future, it will submit to them its critical views on the current organization, or rather, disorganization, as well as ideas on the principles that should preside over the re-composition of the social order.
Markin comment:
I will post any updates from that site if there are any serious discussions of the way forward for the Occupy movement or, more importantly, any analysis of the now atrophied and dysfunctional General Assembly concept. In the meantime I will continue with the “Lessons From History “ series started in the Fall of 2011 with Karl Marx’s The Civil War In France-1871 (The defense of the Paris Commune). Right now this series is focused on the European socialist movement before the Revolutions of 1848.
****
An Injury To One Is An Injury To All!-Defend The Occupy Movement And All Occupiers! Drop All Charges Against All Occupy Protesters Everywhere!
********
Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It Back! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
********
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 for public and private workers to unionize.
* Defend the working classes! No union dues for Democratic (or the stray Republican) candidates. Spent the dough instead on organizing the unorganized and on other labor-specific causes (good example, the November, 2011 anti-union recall referendum in Ohio, bad example the Wisconsin gubernatorial recall race in June 2012).
*End the endless wars!- Immediate, Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops (And Mercenaries) From Afghanistan! Hands Off Pakistan! Hands Off Iran! U.S. 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!
***********
Auguste Blanqui 1834-First issue of “Le Libérateur”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Source: Oeuvres, texts rassemblés et presentés par Dominique de Luz. Nancy, Presses Universitaires de Nancy, 1993;
Translated: for marxists.org by Mitchell Abidor
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Goal of the newspaper
Of all the exclusions that weigh on the citizen without a fortune, the most painful and the one most bitterly felt is that which prohibits him from publishing his thoughts. One can be consoled for not participating in the election of a deputy or a municipal functionary. But we are profoundly wounded by the evil designs of a legislation that restricts thought when that thought doesn’t have the insolent pass handed out by wealth. Those men devoted to defending the principle of equality will never forgive the ministers whose popular names served as a cloak for that law of security deposits and franking that makes the press a slave to the opulent classes, for it is they who bear the responsibility for that irreparable fault. And when, carried away by the boiling up of indignation against triumphant iniquity they raise their voices, an iron glove smashes the words on their lips. They are forbidden to take in hand the interests of the oppressed: they don’t have the right to that. It’s a right that only belongs to the rich; one must be rich in order to better identify with the poor, and riches alone gives the guts to feel and express their sufferings.
This newspaper is a protest against force’s insulting derision. A lone citizen, without money, without a sou put away, undertakes to brave the prohibition imposed by the aristocracy of the ecu against the poor man who dares to think. With his health destroyed, barely out of the prison where a verdict had him expiate the cries he raised up in favor of exploited workers, his hands still marked by the imprint of handcuffs, he today again takes up arms. And he will write, having ceaselessly before his eyes the unfortunate brothers that he left behind in those sad tombs. He is not one of those men who, in the midst of a society torn apart by passions, claims to feel no passion; who in order not to displease selfish dominators protects himself against all convictions as if they were evil things, and affects to maintain a cowardly impartiality between those who suffer and those who cause suffering. The only role appropriate for an honest man is that of loudly avowing his affections and his hatreds. One should feel sorry for those who boast of the fact that they neither love nor hate anyone, for if they are telling the truth they have nothing in their breasts. And if they lie, what authority remains to their words?
Those of Le Liberateur will be frank, with neither reticence nor hesitations. On one hand it will make an effort to expose in simple, clear, and precise terms why the people are unhappy and how they can cease to be so. It will explain the nature of the relationships that exist today between the master and the worker, the social question that virtually on its own constitutes all of political economy, and about which professors say barely a word. And at the same time, addressing itself to men whose profound meditations turn them from the hustle and bustle of the moment in order to embrace from on high all of humanity in its past and its future, it will submit to them its critical views on the current organization, or rather, disorganization, as well as ideas on the principles that should preside over the re-composition of the social order.
From the Pen Of Peter Paul Markin- From the “Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Night” Series - Scenes From The Search For The Blue-Pink Great American West Night- Westward Ho!
Scene Six: Westward Ho! In The Search For The Blue-Pink Great American West Night
As I stepped down onto the yellow-sunned, farm-fresh soil from the farm-fresh cab of the farm-fresh truck that had deposited Angelica and me out into the waving-fielded, farm-fresh Neola, Iowa September day I quickly flashed back to stepping down from Colonel Eddie’s truck cab in Winchester, Kentucky that had started this whole segment of the trip westward. Christ that seemed like an eternity ago although it had been only a few summer heated, summer sweat-soaked heated weeks. Life on the road had its own tempos but this one, for reasons that I will discuss later, had run out of tempo and we were living on pure fumes just then.
While I am thinking about Winchester, Kentucky I might as well tell you what had happened since then to get us here to yellowed-sunned, waving-field, farm-fresh country and that will go a long way to explaining our need, our desperate need, for a jump start. Needless to say we had kicked the dust of Prestonburg, Kentucky over in the eastern part of the state where fair Angelica, my travelling companion, and me had been kicking our heels up at a barn dance (and kicking those same heels after the dance under the sheets as well at her cousin’s house where we stayed during the visit). Right then me, I swear, about four sheets to the wind, no five or six sheets to the wind from the local, well-aged (about six minutes) “white lightning” but somehow during the dance we, thanks to Angelica, got promised a ride from Prestonsburg to Winchester which is just outside of Lexington, Kentucky.
Our chauffer, our Angelica-smitten chauffer, for the occasion turned out to be one ancient hard-driving (as we quickly found out), hard-drinking (as I knew from his condition as we met up with him), ghost of a truck-driving Colonel Eddie. (The colonel part is made-up, made up by him, all these Kentucky guys from the lowliest pig farmer on up call themselves that, or did back then. I think for about two bucks you could get yourself an “official” certificate designating you as such. If old Eddie had been a “real” colonel then that would go a long way to explaining the South’s righteous and well-deserved lost back in Civil War days). And despite this awful build-up of the guy, and a little off-hand character assassination above, he actually got us there, to Winchester that is, in one piece. Colonel Eddie was one the last of the good old boys, for sure.
What that one piece, by the way, looked like after traveling more back roads in the Commonwealth of Kentucky than seemed humanly possible in order to us get there is another story. See that is where the “white lighting” (rotgut, according to a somewhat miffed Angelica) had something like seven lives. Every time I thought I was feeling better, just a tiny it better like maybe I would actually survive the day, we would hit a double-reverse triple somersault hairpin turn followed by a triple-reverse double somersault hairpin turn that made me wish that, if there was any mercy in this flea-bitten old world, we would just go over the top down into some heavenly embankment and be done with it. But, as I said, we got there, and although we were pinching pennies a little, my condition was terminal and we needed, as a matter of simple primitive medical wisdom, to stay at one of those cheapjack motels that dot the back roads of this world to rest up for future battles, for future tilts at the westward windmills.
No, I am not going to descript this cheapjack motel, this back road, and what did or did not happen there, for the simple reason that I don’t really remember much about what it looked like it, or what happened there. Except this, this is etched in my brain and I can feel the cool- handed, cool-toweled sensation even as I am writing. Angelica, miffed or not, had taken a towel, wrapped some ice from the ubiquitous, usually whiskey fixings-friendly motel ice machine in it, and placed it on my forehead and held her hand on the compress for a while until I fell asleep. Of such kindnesses long-lasting civilizations should be created.
But enough of medical reports and folk wisdom medicines, sweet- gestured or not. We were on the road west now, the blue-pink road west and for the first time since Angelica and I had met really on our own. Winchester, Kentucky heading on to Lexington on our way west. Next morning, next already hot, steamy, sulky July Monday morning, having had a decent night’s recovery, and a thimbleful of food in my stomach to be on the safe side, we were off. Tonight we will sleep in no “bourgeois” roadside motel, ice cubes included free of charge or not, but out in the great outdoors, out in the promised great American night, and save our dwindling cash for stormier times. Thumb out, Angelica thumb out here, and we are indeed off. A half hour later after being picked up by a wayward sedan, driven by a nondescript but kindly driver, we are on the road to Lexington. And arrive we do without fanfare, or flourish.
This is really what is important about Lexington though. See, like I told you and I know I told Angelica before, that suitcase that she had packed up for getting her to Steubenville in her Muncie break-out days was fine to live out of for Steubenville motel cabin existences but no good on the hitchhike road, of whatever color. I didn’t tell you this before because Angelica had been such a trouper, especially with that ice-encrusted towel, but she had complained like hell about the damn dangling suitcase every time we had to push on in a hurry. Truth be told I had carried the thing more than she had, invalided as I was. So when we hit Lexington we hit the first Army-Navy store we could find to get her one of those fungible mountaineer backpacks.
Army-Navy store? Yah, Army-Navy store. Don’t snicker about something so, well, about something so yesterday, okay. Out on the hitchhike road you needed sturdy stuff, whatever it was you needed, because stuff got pretty banged around and your “faux” hitchhike road designer goods would last about seven miles (or about as long as the owner of such goods would be on the road before hailing a cab to the nearest airport). And as much as we hated the notion of deadly military weapons and anything military in those days we, we of youth nation, were strangely drawn to that fashion look, and the indestructible nature of their “camping” equipment. Besides the stuff was cheap, remember it was bought as World War II surplus mainly, hell, maybe World War I, but cheap.
Naturally, as events kept unfolding Angelica was showing more and more her origins as a Midwestern flower, and although a total stranger to such a place was thrilled (and mystified) by this place, including the odd , musty smell that goes with such stores. I will quote her, “Wow, does all this stuff really work?” So you can see by that simple statement that, every once in a while, she will throw out her Indiana naïve to confuse me. In any case, soon enough she will know whether it works or not. Of course she took forever to decide on which of two types of olive green backpacks “fit” her. Christ, women (oops, sorry). After that we made other purchases in order to set up “housekeeping”. Like. Well, like a small very portable army pup tent, complete with staves, to shelter us from storms and summer bugs. And a couple of canteens, small useful three-prong knives, a shovel, and mess kits.
I, as I write this, still smile over the fact that Angelica talked for days about how whoever invented such a useful thing as a mess kit was a genius, a pure genius. So you see again what I meant about that Muncie thing. Best of all to her sheer unmitigated delight we purchased a warm, cozy, snuggly army surplus sleeping bag (hey, the best kind okay, you can’t have soldiers freezing their buns off in Alaska, Korea, Northern China or wherever). And also delighted, blushingly delighted, when I, off-handedly, whispered in her ear about how many people could fit inside the thing, in a pinch. And, finally, a green (naturally) army blanket, for emergencies, real emergencies, not those “in a pinch” kind.
After completing those purchases we stepped just outside the store door to a nearby bench, placed there probably for just such purposes, and ceremoniously transferred her stuff from the suitcase to the backpack. Here is the kicker though, which may tell something about human nature or maybe not. I just kind of threw everything into my knapsack and hoped for the best. Hope, for example, that a pair of socks, matched, showed up when needed. Angelica, as I noticed back in the Steubenville pack-up, neat of suitcase also took pains (and would do so throughout the trip) to keep her stuff organized just like in the suitcase. I wonder if we had decided that plastic bags were absolutely the best for travel gear whether she would have done the same. Probably so.
In any case, Angelica’s yesterday Angelica miffs had turned around and she was beaming, at me, at her new existence, at the whole wide world for all I know. I liked it, I told her so, and we were off to a campground just outside of town that the Army-Navy store owner told me about to “camp out” in the great dark American night. Hell, even I was excited. Still I noticed, just a glimmer of a notice, that she turned back wistfully for just a second to take one last look at the suitcase that we left on that bench for someone else in need.
********
Every once in a while, just as things are going right and this old world seems full of bright-eyed possibilities, things get twisted around. Let me tell you about it and see what you think. As we were walking, Angelica proudly practically hip-hop walking with her new backpack bouncing up and down with each step, decided she needed to discuss something, one of our little “adjustments” talks. Apparently the miffed Angelica of yesterday was not so much miffed at my condition as that when we went to sign in at that cheapjack motel I wrote down my real name and her real name indicating that we weren’t married, or at least not related. Some primordial sense of modesty, no, I know, just Muncie conventionality, made her feel ashamed.
Christ Angelica, there was not one cheapjack (or five star, for that matter) motel, hotel, inn, Youth hostel, ashram, whatever in the whole world that in the year 1969 cared who you sign in as. I could have put down Queen Elizabeth and Richard Nixon (although that combination might have raised my eyebrow) and they would have been nonplussed, as long as the coin of the realm, cash, was in hand. I didn’t put quotation marks around the above sentences but I think I could have because that, in my mind’s eye, is probably exactly what I said to her. Her plea, and here I will quote, “I feel ashamed and like a tramp (exact word) and couldn’t we just say we were married when we signed into places?” Apparently the time I was going to spend with this woman was going to be filled with throwing in towels because that is just what I did, I agree to this proposition. Why? Well, in those days I, frankly, didn’t have an opinion, at least a strong opinion, about married or not married and to keep peace I conceded the point. Now would be a different story. But, hell, let’s get to the camp and the great American night.
There are camp sites and there are camp sites. Today you can belly up to some sites with your seven ton, overloaded monster “trailer” home and put in a plug or two and act just like you never left Cicero, Albany, or whatever your port of origin. Or you can go back up into the hills, some forlorn shaggy hills, mainly some Western hills these days, carrying in with you whatever you are going to bring on your back, and be not that far removed from those old pioneers who feared every dangerous animal, dangerous man, dangerous natural condition step of the western way, and carried on nevertheless. The real westward ho crowd.
That day though Angelica and I found ourselves at a plain old-timey campsite which we could see from the road in was dotted with various tents, some small trailers sitting in the beds of pick-up trucks, some free-form trailers pulled by trucks and a couple of psychedelically multi-colored converted school buses. The last had been popping up on the road ever since people started hearing about Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters and their mad eastward escapades a few years earlier. Not a monster trailer in the house, a good sign. I can see a little river as well. Best of all there a small supermarket right across the street. Yes, this portends to be a great American night, and maybe nights.
After I passed the test at the camp office we went to our site, a cozy little site for a tent not too far from the river. What test? Come on now, pay attention, you know the test. Did I or did I not sign us in as Mr. and Mrs. (no Ms. then)? Well, I am still sitting here writing this thing so of course I did. Angelica was beaming, beaming like an old married lady (at nineteen, jesus) but, maybe, just maybe because her “hubby” played it straight with her. (I never did get all the details, and she never put them all out there for me, but back in staid old homey Muncie some guys definitely did her wrong, tramp-treating wrong). Of course unlike the “bourgeois” upper class dwellers here in their little campers we were primitives (a word I have actually seen used to designate some campsites) and had to set up camp from scratch. Hell, we had more fun trying to set that damn Army-Navy tent and setting up for dinner on our little fireplace. There are not many times in life when just a couple of goofy, simple things provided so much entertainment. We napped then feasted.
As it got dark though I heard some music, the Stones, I think coming from one of the multi-colored painted, converted buses down the dirt lane. Nothing loud, but also something that said “youth nation” among the families of three and four that seemed to dominate the camp. We moseyed (like it?) on down and as we got closer I knew we had found kindred spirits, at least I thought we had. Angelica said, “What’s that strange smell?” Of course it was nothing but grass (marijuana, herb, ganja, whatever your term), and from the smell high-grade stuff. I thereafter proceeded to tell Angelica the “skinny”. She seemed a little non-plussed by the news but, however, confessed that she had never smoked or done any other drugs. And from the tone of that response seemingly did not want to.
Those were good and simple days to be young, especially on a road situation like this. Perfect strangers, unknown to one another, except by a telltale beard, or long hair, or long dresses or some slightly off-key sign, immediately embraced and as a welcome “gift” passed you a joint (or whatever drug of choice was available that day) and you passed whatever you had. We had some store-bought wine. I knew, knew from hard Arizona and Connecticut experiences, as well as the lore of the road, that carrying drugs was not “cool.” Many a road comrade spent many a night in some godforsaken cooler for making that mistake when the grim-reaper, usually small town, cops needed to boost their arrest records.
Thus, for me it was nice to have a chance to get “high.” (inhaling even) although Angelica passed and was happy getting a little silly on the wine. We spent a nice night hanging out, listening to the Stones and the Doors, and a couple of other things that I don’t remember. I do remember, as we went back to our own site to turn in, that Angelica said she finally “got” what her parents, her neighbors, her minister, her schoolteachers, and some of her former boyfriends were afraid of. They feared great boxed-in break-out. She started to go on about it, but I gave her a knowing “preaching to the choir” smile and she stopped.
We wound up staying for few days, got to know most of the twelve or fifteen people connected with the buses (two at two adjoining sites, actually) and found out that they were on “vacation” from a little farm house that they all lived in communally, including some primitive farming and weaving to keep body and soul together, just outside of Springfield, Illinois. They were leaving Saturday morning and we were welcome to join them and stay at the farm for a while. We talked it over and it seemed right, especially for Angelica, as we could by-pass sweet home Indiana that she wanted avoid at all costs, so we left with them. That Saturday morning Angelica with great tenderness, and by herself, struck our camp (“our home” she called it by the end) as we prepared for the next leg of our journey. Ah, pioneer woman.
********
You know some towns you can say that you have been in but that is misleading. You might have passed through them, you might have been caught having to sleep on some forsaken bench in some lonely bus stop there, or stretched a watery cup of joe in some lonelier diner against some cold , rainy night wait, or, in flusher times, just hopped on a plane out of the place. So, yes you can tick that town off on your map as you move along in the world but you don’t know the town, no way. That is my recollection of Springfield. Oh sure I knew it was Lincoln’s home area, I knew it was the capital of the state of Illinois, I knew that people in that area were not Mayor Daly’s (the first one) people and that there was plenty of farmland there. But Springfield on this trip (or ever) was just that dot on the map because once we passed through it and we got to the farm a few days and joints after leaving Lexington that was it. We spent some quiet, well maybe no so quiet when the music went decibel high, but youth quiet time on the farm, did a little work for our keep, Angelica got a little more sun that she thought was good for her, and we relaxed before pushing on. Westward ho, ever westward ho in the blue-pink great American West night.
As I stepped down onto the yellow-sunned, farm-fresh soil from the farm-fresh cab of the farm-fresh truck that had deposited Angelica and me out into the waving-fielded, farm-fresh Neola, Iowa September day I quickly flashed back to stepping down from Colonel Eddie’s truck cab in Winchester, Kentucky that had started this whole segment of the trip westward. Christ that seemed like an eternity ago although it had been only a few summer heated, summer sweat-soaked heated weeks. Life on the road had its own tempos but this one, for reasons that I will discuss later, had run out of tempo and we were living on pure fumes just then.
While I am thinking about Winchester, Kentucky I might as well tell you what had happened since then to get us here to yellowed-sunned, waving-field, farm-fresh country and that will go a long way to explaining our need, our desperate need, for a jump start. Needless to say we had kicked the dust of Prestonburg, Kentucky over in the eastern part of the state where fair Angelica, my travelling companion, and me had been kicking our heels up at a barn dance (and kicking those same heels after the dance under the sheets as well at her cousin’s house where we stayed during the visit). Right then me, I swear, about four sheets to the wind, no five or six sheets to the wind from the local, well-aged (about six minutes) “white lightning” but somehow during the dance we, thanks to Angelica, got promised a ride from Prestonsburg to Winchester which is just outside of Lexington, Kentucky.
Our chauffer, our Angelica-smitten chauffer, for the occasion turned out to be one ancient hard-driving (as we quickly found out), hard-drinking (as I knew from his condition as we met up with him), ghost of a truck-driving Colonel Eddie. (The colonel part is made-up, made up by him, all these Kentucky guys from the lowliest pig farmer on up call themselves that, or did back then. I think for about two bucks you could get yourself an “official” certificate designating you as such. If old Eddie had been a “real” colonel then that would go a long way to explaining the South’s righteous and well-deserved lost back in Civil War days). And despite this awful build-up of the guy, and a little off-hand character assassination above, he actually got us there, to Winchester that is, in one piece. Colonel Eddie was one the last of the good old boys, for sure.
What that one piece, by the way, looked like after traveling more back roads in the Commonwealth of Kentucky than seemed humanly possible in order to us get there is another story. See that is where the “white lighting” (rotgut, according to a somewhat miffed Angelica) had something like seven lives. Every time I thought I was feeling better, just a tiny it better like maybe I would actually survive the day, we would hit a double-reverse triple somersault hairpin turn followed by a triple-reverse double somersault hairpin turn that made me wish that, if there was any mercy in this flea-bitten old world, we would just go over the top down into some heavenly embankment and be done with it. But, as I said, we got there, and although we were pinching pennies a little, my condition was terminal and we needed, as a matter of simple primitive medical wisdom, to stay at one of those cheapjack motels that dot the back roads of this world to rest up for future battles, for future tilts at the westward windmills.
No, I am not going to descript this cheapjack motel, this back road, and what did or did not happen there, for the simple reason that I don’t really remember much about what it looked like it, or what happened there. Except this, this is etched in my brain and I can feel the cool- handed, cool-toweled sensation even as I am writing. Angelica, miffed or not, had taken a towel, wrapped some ice from the ubiquitous, usually whiskey fixings-friendly motel ice machine in it, and placed it on my forehead and held her hand on the compress for a while until I fell asleep. Of such kindnesses long-lasting civilizations should be created.
But enough of medical reports and folk wisdom medicines, sweet- gestured or not. We were on the road west now, the blue-pink road west and for the first time since Angelica and I had met really on our own. Winchester, Kentucky heading on to Lexington on our way west. Next morning, next already hot, steamy, sulky July Monday morning, having had a decent night’s recovery, and a thimbleful of food in my stomach to be on the safe side, we were off. Tonight we will sleep in no “bourgeois” roadside motel, ice cubes included free of charge or not, but out in the great outdoors, out in the promised great American night, and save our dwindling cash for stormier times. Thumb out, Angelica thumb out here, and we are indeed off. A half hour later after being picked up by a wayward sedan, driven by a nondescript but kindly driver, we are on the road to Lexington. And arrive we do without fanfare, or flourish.
This is really what is important about Lexington though. See, like I told you and I know I told Angelica before, that suitcase that she had packed up for getting her to Steubenville in her Muncie break-out days was fine to live out of for Steubenville motel cabin existences but no good on the hitchhike road, of whatever color. I didn’t tell you this before because Angelica had been such a trouper, especially with that ice-encrusted towel, but she had complained like hell about the damn dangling suitcase every time we had to push on in a hurry. Truth be told I had carried the thing more than she had, invalided as I was. So when we hit Lexington we hit the first Army-Navy store we could find to get her one of those fungible mountaineer backpacks.
Army-Navy store? Yah, Army-Navy store. Don’t snicker about something so, well, about something so yesterday, okay. Out on the hitchhike road you needed sturdy stuff, whatever it was you needed, because stuff got pretty banged around and your “faux” hitchhike road designer goods would last about seven miles (or about as long as the owner of such goods would be on the road before hailing a cab to the nearest airport). And as much as we hated the notion of deadly military weapons and anything military in those days we, we of youth nation, were strangely drawn to that fashion look, and the indestructible nature of their “camping” equipment. Besides the stuff was cheap, remember it was bought as World War II surplus mainly, hell, maybe World War I, but cheap.
Naturally, as events kept unfolding Angelica was showing more and more her origins as a Midwestern flower, and although a total stranger to such a place was thrilled (and mystified) by this place, including the odd , musty smell that goes with such stores. I will quote her, “Wow, does all this stuff really work?” So you can see by that simple statement that, every once in a while, she will throw out her Indiana naïve to confuse me. In any case, soon enough she will know whether it works or not. Of course she took forever to decide on which of two types of olive green backpacks “fit” her. Christ, women (oops, sorry). After that we made other purchases in order to set up “housekeeping”. Like. Well, like a small very portable army pup tent, complete with staves, to shelter us from storms and summer bugs. And a couple of canteens, small useful three-prong knives, a shovel, and mess kits.
I, as I write this, still smile over the fact that Angelica talked for days about how whoever invented such a useful thing as a mess kit was a genius, a pure genius. So you see again what I meant about that Muncie thing. Best of all to her sheer unmitigated delight we purchased a warm, cozy, snuggly army surplus sleeping bag (hey, the best kind okay, you can’t have soldiers freezing their buns off in Alaska, Korea, Northern China or wherever). And also delighted, blushingly delighted, when I, off-handedly, whispered in her ear about how many people could fit inside the thing, in a pinch. And, finally, a green (naturally) army blanket, for emergencies, real emergencies, not those “in a pinch” kind.
After completing those purchases we stepped just outside the store door to a nearby bench, placed there probably for just such purposes, and ceremoniously transferred her stuff from the suitcase to the backpack. Here is the kicker though, which may tell something about human nature or maybe not. I just kind of threw everything into my knapsack and hoped for the best. Hope, for example, that a pair of socks, matched, showed up when needed. Angelica, as I noticed back in the Steubenville pack-up, neat of suitcase also took pains (and would do so throughout the trip) to keep her stuff organized just like in the suitcase. I wonder if we had decided that plastic bags were absolutely the best for travel gear whether she would have done the same. Probably so.
In any case, Angelica’s yesterday Angelica miffs had turned around and she was beaming, at me, at her new existence, at the whole wide world for all I know. I liked it, I told her so, and we were off to a campground just outside of town that the Army-Navy store owner told me about to “camp out” in the great dark American night. Hell, even I was excited. Still I noticed, just a glimmer of a notice, that she turned back wistfully for just a second to take one last look at the suitcase that we left on that bench for someone else in need.
********
Every once in a while, just as things are going right and this old world seems full of bright-eyed possibilities, things get twisted around. Let me tell you about it and see what you think. As we were walking, Angelica proudly practically hip-hop walking with her new backpack bouncing up and down with each step, decided she needed to discuss something, one of our little “adjustments” talks. Apparently the miffed Angelica of yesterday was not so much miffed at my condition as that when we went to sign in at that cheapjack motel I wrote down my real name and her real name indicating that we weren’t married, or at least not related. Some primordial sense of modesty, no, I know, just Muncie conventionality, made her feel ashamed.
Christ Angelica, there was not one cheapjack (or five star, for that matter) motel, hotel, inn, Youth hostel, ashram, whatever in the whole world that in the year 1969 cared who you sign in as. I could have put down Queen Elizabeth and Richard Nixon (although that combination might have raised my eyebrow) and they would have been nonplussed, as long as the coin of the realm, cash, was in hand. I didn’t put quotation marks around the above sentences but I think I could have because that, in my mind’s eye, is probably exactly what I said to her. Her plea, and here I will quote, “I feel ashamed and like a tramp (exact word) and couldn’t we just say we were married when we signed into places?” Apparently the time I was going to spend with this woman was going to be filled with throwing in towels because that is just what I did, I agree to this proposition. Why? Well, in those days I, frankly, didn’t have an opinion, at least a strong opinion, about married or not married and to keep peace I conceded the point. Now would be a different story. But, hell, let’s get to the camp and the great American night.
There are camp sites and there are camp sites. Today you can belly up to some sites with your seven ton, overloaded monster “trailer” home and put in a plug or two and act just like you never left Cicero, Albany, or whatever your port of origin. Or you can go back up into the hills, some forlorn shaggy hills, mainly some Western hills these days, carrying in with you whatever you are going to bring on your back, and be not that far removed from those old pioneers who feared every dangerous animal, dangerous man, dangerous natural condition step of the western way, and carried on nevertheless. The real westward ho crowd.
That day though Angelica and I found ourselves at a plain old-timey campsite which we could see from the road in was dotted with various tents, some small trailers sitting in the beds of pick-up trucks, some free-form trailers pulled by trucks and a couple of psychedelically multi-colored converted school buses. The last had been popping up on the road ever since people started hearing about Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters and their mad eastward escapades a few years earlier. Not a monster trailer in the house, a good sign. I can see a little river as well. Best of all there a small supermarket right across the street. Yes, this portends to be a great American night, and maybe nights.
After I passed the test at the camp office we went to our site, a cozy little site for a tent not too far from the river. What test? Come on now, pay attention, you know the test. Did I or did I not sign us in as Mr. and Mrs. (no Ms. then)? Well, I am still sitting here writing this thing so of course I did. Angelica was beaming, beaming like an old married lady (at nineteen, jesus) but, maybe, just maybe because her “hubby” played it straight with her. (I never did get all the details, and she never put them all out there for me, but back in staid old homey Muncie some guys definitely did her wrong, tramp-treating wrong). Of course unlike the “bourgeois” upper class dwellers here in their little campers we were primitives (a word I have actually seen used to designate some campsites) and had to set up camp from scratch. Hell, we had more fun trying to set that damn Army-Navy tent and setting up for dinner on our little fireplace. There are not many times in life when just a couple of goofy, simple things provided so much entertainment. We napped then feasted.
As it got dark though I heard some music, the Stones, I think coming from one of the multi-colored painted, converted buses down the dirt lane. Nothing loud, but also something that said “youth nation” among the families of three and four that seemed to dominate the camp. We moseyed (like it?) on down and as we got closer I knew we had found kindred spirits, at least I thought we had. Angelica said, “What’s that strange smell?” Of course it was nothing but grass (marijuana, herb, ganja, whatever your term), and from the smell high-grade stuff. I thereafter proceeded to tell Angelica the “skinny”. She seemed a little non-plussed by the news but, however, confessed that she had never smoked or done any other drugs. And from the tone of that response seemingly did not want to.
Those were good and simple days to be young, especially on a road situation like this. Perfect strangers, unknown to one another, except by a telltale beard, or long hair, or long dresses or some slightly off-key sign, immediately embraced and as a welcome “gift” passed you a joint (or whatever drug of choice was available that day) and you passed whatever you had. We had some store-bought wine. I knew, knew from hard Arizona and Connecticut experiences, as well as the lore of the road, that carrying drugs was not “cool.” Many a road comrade spent many a night in some godforsaken cooler for making that mistake when the grim-reaper, usually small town, cops needed to boost their arrest records.
Thus, for me it was nice to have a chance to get “high.” (inhaling even) although Angelica passed and was happy getting a little silly on the wine. We spent a nice night hanging out, listening to the Stones and the Doors, and a couple of other things that I don’t remember. I do remember, as we went back to our own site to turn in, that Angelica said she finally “got” what her parents, her neighbors, her minister, her schoolteachers, and some of her former boyfriends were afraid of. They feared great boxed-in break-out. She started to go on about it, but I gave her a knowing “preaching to the choir” smile and she stopped.
We wound up staying for few days, got to know most of the twelve or fifteen people connected with the buses (two at two adjoining sites, actually) and found out that they were on “vacation” from a little farm house that they all lived in communally, including some primitive farming and weaving to keep body and soul together, just outside of Springfield, Illinois. They were leaving Saturday morning and we were welcome to join them and stay at the farm for a while. We talked it over and it seemed right, especially for Angelica, as we could by-pass sweet home Indiana that she wanted avoid at all costs, so we left with them. That Saturday morning Angelica with great tenderness, and by herself, struck our camp (“our home” she called it by the end) as we prepared for the next leg of our journey. Ah, pioneer woman.
********
You know some towns you can say that you have been in but that is misleading. You might have passed through them, you might have been caught having to sleep on some forsaken bench in some lonely bus stop there, or stretched a watery cup of joe in some lonelier diner against some cold , rainy night wait, or, in flusher times, just hopped on a plane out of the place. So, yes you can tick that town off on your map as you move along in the world but you don’t know the town, no way. That is my recollection of Springfield. Oh sure I knew it was Lincoln’s home area, I knew it was the capital of the state of Illinois, I knew that people in that area were not Mayor Daly’s (the first one) people and that there was plenty of farmland there. But Springfield on this trip (or ever) was just that dot on the map because once we passed through it and we got to the farm a few days and joints after leaving Lexington that was it. We spent some quiet, well maybe no so quiet when the music went decibel high, but youth quiet time on the farm, did a little work for our keep, Angelica got a little more sun that she thought was good for her, and we relaxed before pushing on. Westward ho, ever westward ho in the blue-pink great American West night.
***From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- From The "Ancient Dreams, Dreamed" Sketches- "Hard Times In Babylon-Growing Up Poor In The 1950s"
Introduction
The following sketches, and that is all they pretend to be, flash-colored sketches, are based, mainly, on stories told to me by my old friend Peter Paul Markin, although I have taken the usual liberties with the truth to “jazz” some of the stories up. I might add that these sketches are more or less in chronological order (although exact dates or time periods may be off slightly, like all misty remembrances), although he told them to me in helter-skelter order time over many years, some under, well, let’s just call them trying circumstances and be done with it.
Markin and I first met long ago in the searching for the great American West 1960s good night the details of which are supplied in a few of the sketches from that period. This however, is not a “memoir” of that period, although we are both certified members in good standing of the generation of ’68 who at one time promised to fight for a “newer world.” The literary universe is thick with, and frankly I am sick unto death of, memoirs from that period, great or small.
What these things pretend to be in earnest, using Markin as a lightning rod, are looks at the extreme variety of human experiences that our wicked old world has spewed forth. Given the very long arduous human struggle to meet our immediate daily needs, they also underline the narrowness of human expression in facing the great tasks that confront us in living on this wicked old earth. Josh Breslin-2012
*************
One night, one early 2007 night, Peter Paul was in a pensive mood. He had just written, half-tear written for lost youth and fallen youth comrade a personal commentary about a childhood friend, Kenny Callahan, from back in the old neighborhood in North Adamsville where he grew up in the 1950s and who had passed away some time before. He had also at that time been re-reading the then recently deceased investigative journalist David Halberstam’s book, The Fifties, that covered that same basic period of his teary remembrance. Strangely Halberstam’s take on the trends of the period, in contrast to the reality of his own childhood experiences as a child of the working poor that missed most of the benefits of that ‘golden age,’ rekindled some memories, a few painful.
It was no exaggeration to say that those were hard times in Babylon. Not so much for individual lacks like a steady (and reliable) family car in order to break out of the cramped quarters, house on house, where he lived once in a while. Or the inevitable hand-me-down clothes (all the way through high school, almost), or worst the Bargain Center bargains that were no bargains (the local “Wal-Mart” of the day to give you an idea of what he meant). Or even the always house coldness in winter (in order to save on precious fuel even in those cheap-priced heating oil times) and hotness in summer (ditto, to save on electricity so no A/C, or fans).
Those, and other such lacks, he noted, all had their place in the poor man’s pantheon, no question. That was not the worst of it though, not by a long shot when he thought back on those red scare cold war times (but what knew he then of such connections). No, what, in the end, make things turn out badly for him and his kind, was the sense of defeat that hung, hung heavily and almost daily over the household, the street, the neighborhood at a time when others, visibly and not so far away, were getting ahead.
Some sociologist, some academic sociologist, for, sure, would call such a phenomenon the death of “rising expectations.” And for once they would be right, or at least on the right track. Thinking back on those times had also made him reflect on how the hard anti-communist politics of the period, the “red scare” had left people like his parents high and dry, although they were as prone to support those repressive governmental policies, as reflex action if nothing else, as any American Legion denizen. Moreover the defeat and destruction of the left-wing movement then, principally the pro-communist organizations of that period, has continued to leave a mark, and a gaping vacuum, on today’s political landscape, and on him.
There are many myths about the 1950’s to be sure, some media-drive, some simply misty time-driven. However, one cannot deny that the key public myth was that those who had fought World War II and were afterwards enlisted in the anti-Soviet Cold War fight against communism were entitled to some breaks. The overwhelming desire for personal security and comfort on the part of those who had survived the Great Depression and fought the war (World War II just so there is no question about which in the long line of wars we are talking about) was not therefore totally irrational. That it came at the expense of other things like a more just and equitable society is a separate matter. Moreover, despite the public myth not everyone benefited from the ‘rising tide.' The experience of his parents is proof of that. Thus this commentary is really about what happened to those, like his parents, who did not make it and were left to their personal fates without a rudder to get them through the rough spots. Yes, his parents (and mine) were of the now much ballyhooed and misnamed ‘greatest generation’ but they were not in it.
He did not want to go through all the details of his parents’ childhoods, courtship and marriage for such biographic details of the Depression and World War II were (and are) plentiful and theirs fits the pattern. (Moreover, he was uneasily aware that he did not know, know for sure, many of the specific details like where they first met and stuff like that.) One detail is, however, important and that is that his father grew up in the hills of eastern Kentucky, Hazard, near Harlan County to be exact, coal mining country made famous in song and story and by Michael Harrington in his 1960s book The Other America.. This was, and is, hardscrabble country by any definition. Among whites these “hillbillies” were the poorest of the poor. There can be little wonder, he emphasized (and made a little joke about it too, about his father telling him between the Pacific bloodbath and the mines he took his chances with the former) that when World War II began his father left the mines to join the Marines, did his fair share of fighting in the Pacific, settled in the Boston area and never looked back.
By all rights Peter Paul’s father should have been able to take advantage of the G.I. Bill and have enjoyed home and hearth like the denizens of Levittown (New York and elsewhere) described in Halberstam’s book and shown on such classic 1950s television shows as Ozzie and Harriet and Leave It To Beaver. But life did not go that way, not at all.
Why? He had virtually no formal education. Furthermore he had no marketable skills usable in the Boston labor market. There was (and is) no call for coal-miners here. And moreover he had three young sons born close together in the immediate post-war period. Peter related that his father was a good man. He was a hard-working man; when he was able find work. He was an upright man. But he never drew a break. Unskilled labor, to which he was reduced, is notoriously unstable, and so his work life was one of barely making ends meet. Thus, well before the age when the two-parent working family became the necessary standard to get ahead, his mother had gone to work to supplement the family income. She too was an unskilled laborer. Thus, even with two people working they were always “dirt poor.” I have already run through enough of the litany of lacks to give an idea of what dirt poor meant in those hard times so we need not retrace those steps as they apply to the Markin family...
That little family started life in the Adamsville housing projects, at that time not the notorious hell-holes of crime and deprivation that they later became but still a mark of being low, very low, on the social ladder at a time when others were heading to the Valhalla of the newly emerging suburbs. By clawing and scratching his parents had eventually saved enough money to buy an extremely modest single-family house. Hell, Peter shouted to me while relating this part, why pussyfoot about it, a shack. The house, moreover, was in a neighborhood that was, and is, one of those old working class neighborhoods where the houses are small, cramped, and seedy, the leavings of those who have moved on to bigger and better things. The neighborhood nevertheless reflected the desire of the working poor in the 1950’s, his parents and others, to own their own homes and not be shunted off into decrepit apartments or dilapidated housing projects, the fate of those just below them on the social ladder.
But suddenly Peter Paul said enough of all that. Where in this story though is there a place for militant left-wing political class-consciousness to break the trap? Not the sense of social inferiority of the poor before the rich (or the merely middle class). Damn, there was plenty of that kind of consciousness in his house (and painfully mine as well). A phrase from the time, and maybe today although I don’t hear it much, said it all “keeping up with the Jones.’” Or else. But where was there an avenue in the 1950’s, when it could have made a difference, for a man like Peter’s father to have his hurts explained and have something done about them?
Nowhere, nada nunca nada. So instead it went internally into the life of the family and it never got resolved. One of his sons, Peter Paul, has had luxury of being able to fight essentially exemplary propaganda battles in small left-wing socialist circles and felt he has done good work in his life. His father’s hurts needed much more. The "red scare" aimed mainly against the American Communist Party but affecting wider layers of society decimated any possibility that he could get the kind of redress he needed. That dear reader, in a nutshell, is why Peter Paul made a point, made a big point, as we ended our talk of saying that he proudly bore the name communist today. And the task for him today? To insure that future young workers, unlike his parents in the 1950’s, will have their day of justice. Good luck, Peter Paul.
The following sketches, and that is all they pretend to be, flash-colored sketches, are based, mainly, on stories told to me by my old friend Peter Paul Markin, although I have taken the usual liberties with the truth to “jazz” some of the stories up. I might add that these sketches are more or less in chronological order (although exact dates or time periods may be off slightly, like all misty remembrances), although he told them to me in helter-skelter order time over many years, some under, well, let’s just call them trying circumstances and be done with it.
Markin and I first met long ago in the searching for the great American West 1960s good night the details of which are supplied in a few of the sketches from that period. This however, is not a “memoir” of that period, although we are both certified members in good standing of the generation of ’68 who at one time promised to fight for a “newer world.” The literary universe is thick with, and frankly I am sick unto death of, memoirs from that period, great or small.
What these things pretend to be in earnest, using Markin as a lightning rod, are looks at the extreme variety of human experiences that our wicked old world has spewed forth. Given the very long arduous human struggle to meet our immediate daily needs, they also underline the narrowness of human expression in facing the great tasks that confront us in living on this wicked old earth. Josh Breslin-2012
*************
One night, one early 2007 night, Peter Paul was in a pensive mood. He had just written, half-tear written for lost youth and fallen youth comrade a personal commentary about a childhood friend, Kenny Callahan, from back in the old neighborhood in North Adamsville where he grew up in the 1950s and who had passed away some time before. He had also at that time been re-reading the then recently deceased investigative journalist David Halberstam’s book, The Fifties, that covered that same basic period of his teary remembrance. Strangely Halberstam’s take on the trends of the period, in contrast to the reality of his own childhood experiences as a child of the working poor that missed most of the benefits of that ‘golden age,’ rekindled some memories, a few painful.
It was no exaggeration to say that those were hard times in Babylon. Not so much for individual lacks like a steady (and reliable) family car in order to break out of the cramped quarters, house on house, where he lived once in a while. Or the inevitable hand-me-down clothes (all the way through high school, almost), or worst the Bargain Center bargains that were no bargains (the local “Wal-Mart” of the day to give you an idea of what he meant). Or even the always house coldness in winter (in order to save on precious fuel even in those cheap-priced heating oil times) and hotness in summer (ditto, to save on electricity so no A/C, or fans).
Those, and other such lacks, he noted, all had their place in the poor man’s pantheon, no question. That was not the worst of it though, not by a long shot when he thought back on those red scare cold war times (but what knew he then of such connections). No, what, in the end, make things turn out badly for him and his kind, was the sense of defeat that hung, hung heavily and almost daily over the household, the street, the neighborhood at a time when others, visibly and not so far away, were getting ahead.
Some sociologist, some academic sociologist, for, sure, would call such a phenomenon the death of “rising expectations.” And for once they would be right, or at least on the right track. Thinking back on those times had also made him reflect on how the hard anti-communist politics of the period, the “red scare” had left people like his parents high and dry, although they were as prone to support those repressive governmental policies, as reflex action if nothing else, as any American Legion denizen. Moreover the defeat and destruction of the left-wing movement then, principally the pro-communist organizations of that period, has continued to leave a mark, and a gaping vacuum, on today’s political landscape, and on him.
There are many myths about the 1950’s to be sure, some media-drive, some simply misty time-driven. However, one cannot deny that the key public myth was that those who had fought World War II and were afterwards enlisted in the anti-Soviet Cold War fight against communism were entitled to some breaks. The overwhelming desire for personal security and comfort on the part of those who had survived the Great Depression and fought the war (World War II just so there is no question about which in the long line of wars we are talking about) was not therefore totally irrational. That it came at the expense of other things like a more just and equitable society is a separate matter. Moreover, despite the public myth not everyone benefited from the ‘rising tide.' The experience of his parents is proof of that. Thus this commentary is really about what happened to those, like his parents, who did not make it and were left to their personal fates without a rudder to get them through the rough spots. Yes, his parents (and mine) were of the now much ballyhooed and misnamed ‘greatest generation’ but they were not in it.
He did not want to go through all the details of his parents’ childhoods, courtship and marriage for such biographic details of the Depression and World War II were (and are) plentiful and theirs fits the pattern. (Moreover, he was uneasily aware that he did not know, know for sure, many of the specific details like where they first met and stuff like that.) One detail is, however, important and that is that his father grew up in the hills of eastern Kentucky, Hazard, near Harlan County to be exact, coal mining country made famous in song and story and by Michael Harrington in his 1960s book The Other America.. This was, and is, hardscrabble country by any definition. Among whites these “hillbillies” were the poorest of the poor. There can be little wonder, he emphasized (and made a little joke about it too, about his father telling him between the Pacific bloodbath and the mines he took his chances with the former) that when World War II began his father left the mines to join the Marines, did his fair share of fighting in the Pacific, settled in the Boston area and never looked back.
By all rights Peter Paul’s father should have been able to take advantage of the G.I. Bill and have enjoyed home and hearth like the denizens of Levittown (New York and elsewhere) described in Halberstam’s book and shown on such classic 1950s television shows as Ozzie and Harriet and Leave It To Beaver. But life did not go that way, not at all.
Why? He had virtually no formal education. Furthermore he had no marketable skills usable in the Boston labor market. There was (and is) no call for coal-miners here. And moreover he had three young sons born close together in the immediate post-war period. Peter related that his father was a good man. He was a hard-working man; when he was able find work. He was an upright man. But he never drew a break. Unskilled labor, to which he was reduced, is notoriously unstable, and so his work life was one of barely making ends meet. Thus, well before the age when the two-parent working family became the necessary standard to get ahead, his mother had gone to work to supplement the family income. She too was an unskilled laborer. Thus, even with two people working they were always “dirt poor.” I have already run through enough of the litany of lacks to give an idea of what dirt poor meant in those hard times so we need not retrace those steps as they apply to the Markin family...
That little family started life in the Adamsville housing projects, at that time not the notorious hell-holes of crime and deprivation that they later became but still a mark of being low, very low, on the social ladder at a time when others were heading to the Valhalla of the newly emerging suburbs. By clawing and scratching his parents had eventually saved enough money to buy an extremely modest single-family house. Hell, Peter shouted to me while relating this part, why pussyfoot about it, a shack. The house, moreover, was in a neighborhood that was, and is, one of those old working class neighborhoods where the houses are small, cramped, and seedy, the leavings of those who have moved on to bigger and better things. The neighborhood nevertheless reflected the desire of the working poor in the 1950’s, his parents and others, to own their own homes and not be shunted off into decrepit apartments or dilapidated housing projects, the fate of those just below them on the social ladder.
But suddenly Peter Paul said enough of all that. Where in this story though is there a place for militant left-wing political class-consciousness to break the trap? Not the sense of social inferiority of the poor before the rich (or the merely middle class). Damn, there was plenty of that kind of consciousness in his house (and painfully mine as well). A phrase from the time, and maybe today although I don’t hear it much, said it all “keeping up with the Jones.’” Or else. But where was there an avenue in the 1950’s, when it could have made a difference, for a man like Peter’s father to have his hurts explained and have something done about them?
Nowhere, nada nunca nada. So instead it went internally into the life of the family and it never got resolved. One of his sons, Peter Paul, has had luxury of being able to fight essentially exemplary propaganda battles in small left-wing socialist circles and felt he has done good work in his life. His father’s hurts needed much more. The "red scare" aimed mainly against the American Communist Party but affecting wider layers of society decimated any possibility that he could get the kind of redress he needed. That dear reader, in a nutshell, is why Peter Paul made a point, made a big point, as we ended our talk of saying that he proudly bore the name communist today. And the task for him today? To insure that future young workers, unlike his parents in the 1950’s, will have their day of justice. Good luck, Peter Paul.
Let’s Redouble Our Efforts To Save Private Bradley Manning-Make Every Town Square In America (And The World) A Bradley Manning Square From Boston To Berkeley to Berlin-Join Us In Davis Square, Somerville –The Stand-Out Is Every Wednesday From 4:00-5:00 PM
Click on the headline to link to a the Private Bradley Manning Petition website page.
Markin comment:
The Private Bradley Manning case is headed toward a late fall/early winter trial. Those of us who support his cause should redouble our efforts to secure his freedom. For the past several months there has been a weekly stand-out in Greater Boston across from the Davis Square Redline MBTA stop (renamed Bradley Manning Square for the vigil’s duration) in Somerville on Friday afternoons but we have since July 4th changed the time and day to 4:00-5:00 PM on Wednesdays. This stand-out has, to say the least, been very sparsely attended. We need to build it up with more supporters present. Please join us when you can. Or better yet if you can’t join us start a Support Bradley Manning weekly vigil in some location in your town whether it is in the Boston area, Berkeley or Berlin. And please sign the petition for his release. I have placed links to the Manning Network and Manning Square website below.
********
News has reached us that some of the folks at the Dorchester People for Peace (DPP) have started a stand-out for Private Manning to be held weekly beginning on Tuesday July 24, 2012 at 4:00 PM at the corner of Dorchester Avenue and Adams Street (the Veterans Triangle) in Fields Corner (a multi-cultural working class neighborhood of Boston ). Fields Corner is an easily reachable stop via the MBTA Redline.Please join them.
********
Bradley Manning Support Network
http://www.bradleymanning.org/
Manning Square website
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
The following are remarks that I have been focusing on of late to build support for Private Manning’s cause.
Veterans for Peace proudly stands in solidarity with, and defense of, Private Bradley Manning.
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.
I stand in solidarity with the alleged actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious war-related doings of this government, under Bush and Obama. 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 wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning may have exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justifications rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.
I am standing in solidarity with Private Bradley Manning 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 two years, and has been held without trial for 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.
These are more than sufficient reasons to stand in solidarity with Private Manning and will be until the day this brave soldier is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Private Manning until that great day.
Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal of All U.S./Allied Troops And Mercenaries From Afghanistan! Hands Off Iran! Free Private Manning Now!
Markin comment:
The Private Bradley Manning case is headed toward a late fall/early winter trial. Those of us who support his cause should redouble our efforts to secure his freedom. For the past several months there has been a weekly stand-out in Greater Boston across from the Davis Square Redline MBTA stop (renamed Bradley Manning Square for the vigil’s duration) in Somerville on Friday afternoons but we have since July 4th changed the time and day to 4:00-5:00 PM on Wednesdays. This stand-out has, to say the least, been very sparsely attended. We need to build it up with more supporters present. Please join us when you can. Or better yet if you can’t join us start a Support Bradley Manning weekly vigil in some location in your town whether it is in the Boston area, Berkeley or Berlin. And please sign the petition for his release. I have placed links to the Manning Network and Manning Square website below.
********
News has reached us that some of the folks at the Dorchester People for Peace (DPP) have started a stand-out for Private Manning to be held weekly beginning on Tuesday July 24, 2012 at 4:00 PM at the corner of Dorchester Avenue and Adams Street (the Veterans Triangle) in Fields Corner (a multi-cultural working class neighborhood of Boston ). Fields Corner is an easily reachable stop via the MBTA Redline.Please join them.
********
Bradley Manning Support Network
http://www.bradleymanning.org/
Manning Square website
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
The following are remarks that I have been focusing on of late to build support for Private Manning’s cause.
Veterans for Peace proudly stands in solidarity with, and defense of, Private Bradley Manning.
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.
I stand in solidarity with the alleged actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious war-related doings of this government, under Bush and Obama. 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 wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning may have exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justifications rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.
I am standing in solidarity with Private Bradley Manning 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 two years, and has been held without trial for 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.
These are more than sufficient reasons to stand in solidarity with Private Manning and will be until the day this brave soldier is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Private Manning until that great day.
Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal of All U.S./Allied Troops And Mercenaries From Afghanistan! Hands Off Iran! Free Private Manning Now!
Monday, July 23, 2012
When Bad Blake Was Bad- Jeff Bridges’ “Rancho Deluxe”
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Jeff Bridges’ Rancho Deluxe
DVD Review
Rancho Deluxe, starring Jeff Bridges, Sam Waterston, United Artists, 1975
I have over the past several years, ever since Jeff Bridges won his well- deserved Oscar for his portrayal of bad boy singer-songwriter Bad Blake, in Crazy Hearts been on a tear to review his earlier work. My premise has been all along that the persona of Bad was genetically-engineered in Bridges by his previous performances on the screen. And in some case that proved true. In the film under review here, Rancho Deluxe, an argument can be made for the randomness of that genetic structuring. This one does not lead to thoughts of future Oscars (or nominations) for one Jeff Bridges.
Why? The 1970s were a great time to debunk the various ingrained notions about the heroic cowboy, about the “freedom” of the Old West, and about the civilizing mission of the white man. This film attempt in its way to put a big pin in that balloon with a send-up of what the New West looks like. That is not bad as an idea, except the saga gets bogged down in 1970s ennui (or maybe anytime ennui). Jeff and Sam (Waterston, as an Indian, not a Native American even) are cattle rustlers in Big Sky Montana seemingly out on a lark. The get in and out of various forms of mischief and mayhem, with and without women, until the final reckoning- caught and placed in the state pen (not like the old days when they would have been hanged, hanged high). And that seems fitting. Sorry Jeff, maybe that is why I had a hard time finding this one to review.
DVD Review
Rancho Deluxe, starring Jeff Bridges, Sam Waterston, United Artists, 1975
I have over the past several years, ever since Jeff Bridges won his well- deserved Oscar for his portrayal of bad boy singer-songwriter Bad Blake, in Crazy Hearts been on a tear to review his earlier work. My premise has been all along that the persona of Bad was genetically-engineered in Bridges by his previous performances on the screen. And in some case that proved true. In the film under review here, Rancho Deluxe, an argument can be made for the randomness of that genetic structuring. This one does not lead to thoughts of future Oscars (or nominations) for one Jeff Bridges.
Why? The 1970s were a great time to debunk the various ingrained notions about the heroic cowboy, about the “freedom” of the Old West, and about the civilizing mission of the white man. This film attempt in its way to put a big pin in that balloon with a send-up of what the New West looks like. That is not bad as an idea, except the saga gets bogged down in 1970s ennui (or maybe anytime ennui). Jeff and Sam (Waterston, as an Indian, not a Native American even) are cattle rustlers in Big Sky Montana seemingly out on a lark. The get in and out of various forms of mischief and mayhem, with and without women, until the final reckoning- caught and placed in the state pen (not like the old days when they would have been hanged, hanged high). And that seems fitting. Sorry Jeff, maybe that is why I had a hard time finding this one to review.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
From the Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-“By The Time We Got To Woodstock We Were Half A Million Strong"
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the movie trailer for Taking Woodstock.
Okay, I confess, and confess so publicly, that while I am a certified proud member of the generation of ’68, the political branch of that generation, I was not even remotely near Woodstock, New York on that fateful August weekend of 1969 when the myth of "youth nation" took on a certain substantive possibility that we might, after all, make a “newer world.” Others may have regrets that they did not attend but, I, unlike non-attendee Joni Mitchell, whose words from her song Woodstock form part of the headline for this sketch, do not.
I, actually, was heading elsewhere, heading hard elsewhere on the hitchhike highway road in search of the blue-pink great American West night that was another branch of that same experience. That experience I am very happy that I undertook, and have written about elsewhere. The center of that experience was being “on the bus,” year two on the bus, with Captain Crunch (real name, Jack Samuels) and his post-Kesey band of merry pranksters travelling the yellow brick magical mystery tour road (a.k.a. running up and down the Pacific Coast Highway), searching for dreams, butterfly swirls, and what turned out to a forty-year friendship with one Peter Paul Markin and his bagful of political ideas that have driven him, and indirectly me, over that time.
That said, we were, wherever we were, in those times, at least those of us who were fighting for some version of that “newer world” seeking, children of Woodstock. Maybe not that particular experience, after all half a million people hardly exhausted the numbers who were “searching” in those days, but some experience be it another of the myriad musical festivals that took place in those years, or a communal living experience, or like me, a highway hitchhike break-out in search of the great American West night. Or just took a “hit” of dope (hell, maybe a bong-full, inhaled) or popped a pill that in earlier or later times would have been scorned. It is under that sign the renowned director Ang Lee has cinematically creatively taken a back story from those times, Taking Woodstock, a back story centered on the locals rather than the rock stars or the “hippie” touristas associated with the name Woodstock, and meshed it with one of the local’s self-discovery in 2009, the 40th anniversary year of that event.
Whatever Woodstock, the place, and its environs were after the festival invasion before that event it was a dying Catskills resort area and farmland. That resort idea is central to the story line here. The Catskills, in the old days, before there was more widespread assimilation and Jews began to be accepted in other locales was always associated with the place where they went for vacation and as a “proving ground” for up and coming Jewish entertainers. By 1969 that idea, and those places, were passé. However, not everybody got the word, especially not an old Jewish couple who were hanging on to their mortgaged to the hilt motel for dear life, despite the best efforts of their assimilated son, the central character, of the film.
They did hold, or rather he held, an important asset: permits to allow the festival to go on. The story, the Woodstock and self-discovery story, take off from that point as we view the trials and tribulations of producing this musical spectacle, its actual occurrence, and the sometimes funny experiences that mother, father, and son experience, including the mandatory drug experimentation, sex (hetero and homosexual), and rock ‘n’ roll. Is this the definitive study on Woodstock, on the 1960s counterculture, or on the generation of ’68’s jail break-out? No, hell no, but it is a very nicely done slice-of-life film around that seminal 1960s event. Nicely done, indeed.
Okay, I confess, and confess so publicly, that while I am a certified proud member of the generation of ’68, the political branch of that generation, I was not even remotely near Woodstock, New York on that fateful August weekend of 1969 when the myth of "youth nation" took on a certain substantive possibility that we might, after all, make a “newer world.” Others may have regrets that they did not attend but, I, unlike non-attendee Joni Mitchell, whose words from her song Woodstock form part of the headline for this sketch, do not.
I, actually, was heading elsewhere, heading hard elsewhere on the hitchhike highway road in search of the blue-pink great American West night that was another branch of that same experience. That experience I am very happy that I undertook, and have written about elsewhere. The center of that experience was being “on the bus,” year two on the bus, with Captain Crunch (real name, Jack Samuels) and his post-Kesey band of merry pranksters travelling the yellow brick magical mystery tour road (a.k.a. running up and down the Pacific Coast Highway), searching for dreams, butterfly swirls, and what turned out to a forty-year friendship with one Peter Paul Markin and his bagful of political ideas that have driven him, and indirectly me, over that time.
That said, we were, wherever we were, in those times, at least those of us who were fighting for some version of that “newer world” seeking, children of Woodstock. Maybe not that particular experience, after all half a million people hardly exhausted the numbers who were “searching” in those days, but some experience be it another of the myriad musical festivals that took place in those years, or a communal living experience, or like me, a highway hitchhike break-out in search of the great American West night. Or just took a “hit” of dope (hell, maybe a bong-full, inhaled) or popped a pill that in earlier or later times would have been scorned. It is under that sign the renowned director Ang Lee has cinematically creatively taken a back story from those times, Taking Woodstock, a back story centered on the locals rather than the rock stars or the “hippie” touristas associated with the name Woodstock, and meshed it with one of the local’s self-discovery in 2009, the 40th anniversary year of that event.
Whatever Woodstock, the place, and its environs were after the festival invasion before that event it was a dying Catskills resort area and farmland. That resort idea is central to the story line here. The Catskills, in the old days, before there was more widespread assimilation and Jews began to be accepted in other locales was always associated with the place where they went for vacation and as a “proving ground” for up and coming Jewish entertainers. By 1969 that idea, and those places, were passé. However, not everybody got the word, especially not an old Jewish couple who were hanging on to their mortgaged to the hilt motel for dear life, despite the best efforts of their assimilated son, the central character, of the film.
They did hold, or rather he held, an important asset: permits to allow the festival to go on. The story, the Woodstock and self-discovery story, take off from that point as we view the trials and tribulations of producing this musical spectacle, its actual occurrence, and the sometimes funny experiences that mother, father, and son experience, including the mandatory drug experimentation, sex (hetero and homosexual), and rock ‘n’ roll. Is this the definitive study on Woodstock, on the 1960s counterculture, or on the generation of ’68’s jail break-out? No, hell no, but it is a very nicely done slice-of-life film around that seminal 1960s event. Nicely done, indeed.
From the Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- An Uncounted Casualty Of War
He, Peter Paul Markin, had returned, while on some unrelated business in the area, to the neighborhood where he grew up, old time North Adamsville just outside of Boston. The neighborhood is one of those old working-class neighborhoods, the old inner suburbs long gone to seed, long past its industrial- centered usefulness in its losing battle (ship-building) to the “race to the bottom” global economy. Also filled with every kind of cheap jack strip mall and excess fast food joint, and where the houses are small, cramped and seedy, the leavings of those who have moved on to bigger and better things. The neighborhood nevertheless back in the day reflected, and still reflected a certain shabby gentility, humbly displaying the desire of the working poor in the 1950's, his parents and others, to own their own homes and not be shunted off to decrepit apartments or dilapidated housing projects, the fate of those just below them on the social ladder. The fate of the cross-town denizens of the Adamsville Housing Authority apartment (“the project”) that his family had, just barely, escaped from as he came of age.
While there in the old neighborhood he happened upon an old neighbor who recognized him despite the fact that he had not seen her, Maude Brady to give her a proper name, for at least thirty years. Since she had grown up and had lived there continuously, marrying and raising three children there, then taking over sole ownership of the family house upon the death of her parents , he inquired about the fate of various people that he had grown up with. She, as is usually the case in such circumstances, had a wealth of information about how Billy, a boy she had prudently turned down for a date, was serving a twenty strength for armed robbery, about how Lannie, a girl that he, Peter Paul, had more than a passing interest in, had had a couple of kids out of wedlock with a married man who would not divorce his wife. A couple of good reports as well about how her Johnny had made the grade and was now on the North Adamsville Police Department and how her Susan worked nights at the Medical Center as a nurse-practitioner. The usual proud parent stuff, harmless,
But one story in particular cut him to the quick. He had asked about a boy named Kenny who was a couple of years younger than him was but who he was very close to until his teenage years. Kenny, who lived down at the bottom of Glover Street kitty-corner from his own street, used to tag along with his crowd until, as teenagers will do, he made it clear that Kenny was no longer welcome being ‘too young’ to hang around with the older boys, the corner boys, led by one pinball wizard Frankie Larkin, the king hell king of the North Adamsville High School night. And “owner” of the coveted Salducci’s Pizza Parlor corner spot all through high school. But the details of that story are for another day as this is Kenny’s story, not Frankie’s.
The long and the short of it was that Kenny found other friends of his own age to hang with, one in particular from down my street, Maple Street, named Jimmy. He had only a nodding acquaintance with both thereafter. As happened more often than not during the 1960’s in working class neighborhoods all over the country, especially with kids who were not academically inclined, when Jimmy came of age he faced the draft or the alternative of ‘volunteering’ for military service. He enlisted. Kenny, for a number of valid medical reasons, was 4-F (unqualified for military service). Of course, you know what is coming. Jimmy was sent to Vietnam where he was killed in 1968 at the age of 20. His name is one of the 58,000 plus that are etched on that Vietnam Memorial Wall down in Washington. His story ends there. Unfortunately, Kenny’s just begins.
Kenny took Jimmy’s death hard. Harder, as Maude related some of the more public details, than one can possibly imagine. The early details are rather sketchy but they may have involved illegal drug use. Hell, they, including Peter Paul, all knew about drugs, had at least experienced and experimented with some of them, along with almost all the other member of “youth nation,” circa the 1960s. But Kenny went overboard apparently, way overboard.
The overt manifestations were reflected in a flare –up of acts of petty crime and then anti-social acts like pulling fire alarms and walking naked down the street. At some point he was diagnosed as schizophrenic. Peter Paul, when he later checked up on that particular mental illness and its causes, said he made no pretense of having adequate knowledge about the causes of mental illnesses but someone he trusted has told him that such a traumatic event as Jimmy’s death could trigger the condition in young adults.
In any case, the institutionalizations inevitably began. And later the halfway houses, and all the other forms of social control for those who cannot survive on the mean streets of this wicked old world on their own. Apparently, with drugs and therapy, there were periods of calm but for over three decades poor Kenny struggled with his inner demons. In the end the demons won and he died a few years ago while in a mental hospital.
Certainly this is not a happy story, and Maude rather steely in talking about Billy and some other local desperadoes, was always on the edge of tears in relating this story. Perhaps, Peter Paul thought later, aside from the specific details, not this was even an unusual one in modern times. Nevertheless he now counted Kenny, Kenny Callahan, to finally give him a name, as one of the uncounted casualties of war. Along with those physically wounded soldiers who can back from Vietnam service unable to cope with their own demons and sought solace in drugs and alcohol. And those, who for other reasons, could no adjust and found themselves on the streets, in the half way shelters or the V. A. hospitals. And also those grieving parents and other loved ones whose lives were shattered and broken by the loss of their children. There is no wall in Washington for Kenny or them. But, maybe there should be. As for poor childhood Kenny, Kenny Callahan, from the old neighborhood- Rest in Peace.
While there in the old neighborhood he happened upon an old neighbor who recognized him despite the fact that he had not seen her, Maude Brady to give her a proper name, for at least thirty years. Since she had grown up and had lived there continuously, marrying and raising three children there, then taking over sole ownership of the family house upon the death of her parents , he inquired about the fate of various people that he had grown up with. She, as is usually the case in such circumstances, had a wealth of information about how Billy, a boy she had prudently turned down for a date, was serving a twenty strength for armed robbery, about how Lannie, a girl that he, Peter Paul, had more than a passing interest in, had had a couple of kids out of wedlock with a married man who would not divorce his wife. A couple of good reports as well about how her Johnny had made the grade and was now on the North Adamsville Police Department and how her Susan worked nights at the Medical Center as a nurse-practitioner. The usual proud parent stuff, harmless,
But one story in particular cut him to the quick. He had asked about a boy named Kenny who was a couple of years younger than him was but who he was very close to until his teenage years. Kenny, who lived down at the bottom of Glover Street kitty-corner from his own street, used to tag along with his crowd until, as teenagers will do, he made it clear that Kenny was no longer welcome being ‘too young’ to hang around with the older boys, the corner boys, led by one pinball wizard Frankie Larkin, the king hell king of the North Adamsville High School night. And “owner” of the coveted Salducci’s Pizza Parlor corner spot all through high school. But the details of that story are for another day as this is Kenny’s story, not Frankie’s.
The long and the short of it was that Kenny found other friends of his own age to hang with, one in particular from down my street, Maple Street, named Jimmy. He had only a nodding acquaintance with both thereafter. As happened more often than not during the 1960’s in working class neighborhoods all over the country, especially with kids who were not academically inclined, when Jimmy came of age he faced the draft or the alternative of ‘volunteering’ for military service. He enlisted. Kenny, for a number of valid medical reasons, was 4-F (unqualified for military service). Of course, you know what is coming. Jimmy was sent to Vietnam where he was killed in 1968 at the age of 20. His name is one of the 58,000 plus that are etched on that Vietnam Memorial Wall down in Washington. His story ends there. Unfortunately, Kenny’s just begins.
Kenny took Jimmy’s death hard. Harder, as Maude related some of the more public details, than one can possibly imagine. The early details are rather sketchy but they may have involved illegal drug use. Hell, they, including Peter Paul, all knew about drugs, had at least experienced and experimented with some of them, along with almost all the other member of “youth nation,” circa the 1960s. But Kenny went overboard apparently, way overboard.
The overt manifestations were reflected in a flare –up of acts of petty crime and then anti-social acts like pulling fire alarms and walking naked down the street. At some point he was diagnosed as schizophrenic. Peter Paul, when he later checked up on that particular mental illness and its causes, said he made no pretense of having adequate knowledge about the causes of mental illnesses but someone he trusted has told him that such a traumatic event as Jimmy’s death could trigger the condition in young adults.
In any case, the institutionalizations inevitably began. And later the halfway houses, and all the other forms of social control for those who cannot survive on the mean streets of this wicked old world on their own. Apparently, with drugs and therapy, there were periods of calm but for over three decades poor Kenny struggled with his inner demons. In the end the demons won and he died a few years ago while in a mental hospital.
Certainly this is not a happy story, and Maude rather steely in talking about Billy and some other local desperadoes, was always on the edge of tears in relating this story. Perhaps, Peter Paul thought later, aside from the specific details, not this was even an unusual one in modern times. Nevertheless he now counted Kenny, Kenny Callahan, to finally give him a name, as one of the uncounted casualties of war. Along with those physically wounded soldiers who can back from Vietnam service unable to cope with their own demons and sought solace in drugs and alcohol. And those, who for other reasons, could no adjust and found themselves on the streets, in the half way shelters or the V. A. hospitals. And also those grieving parents and other loved ones whose lives were shattered and broken by the loss of their children. There is no wall in Washington for Kenny or them. But, maybe there should be. As for poor childhood Kenny, Kenny Callahan, from the old neighborhood- Rest in Peace.
Let’s Redouble Our Efforts To Save Private Bradley Manning-Make Every Town Square In America (And The World) A Bradley Manning Square From Boston To Berkeley to Berlin-Join Us In Fields Corner (Corner Dorchester Ave And Adams Street), Dorchester -Beginning Tuesday July 24th From 4:00-5:00 PM
Click on the headline to link to the Private Bradley Manning Petition website page.
Markin comment:
The Private Bradley Manning case is headed toward a late fall/early winter trial. Those of us who support his cause should redouble our efforts to secure his freedom. For the past several months there has been a weekly stand-out in Greater Boston across from the Davis Square Redline MBTA stop (renamed Bradley Manning Square for the vigil’s duration) in Somerville on Friday afternoons but we have now changed the time from 4:00-5:00 PM on Wednesdays. This stand-out has, to say the least, been very sparsely attended. We need to build it up with more supporters present. Please join us when you can. Or better yet if you can’t join us start a Support Bradley Manning weekly vigil in some location in your town whether it is in the Boston area, Berkeley or Berlin. And please sign the petition for his release. I have placed links to the Manning Network and Manning Square website below.
News has reached me that some of the folks at the Dorchester People for Peace (DPP) are starting a stand-out for Private Manning beginning on Tuesday July 24, 2012 at 4:00 PM at the corner of Dorchester Avenue and Adams Street (the Veterans Triangle) in Fields Corner. Please join them.
Bradley Manning Support Network
http://www.bradleymanning.org/
Somerville Manning Square website
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
The following are remarks that I have been focusing on of late to build support for Bradley Manning’s cause.
Veterans for Peace proudly stands in solidarity with, and defense of, Private Bradley Manning.
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.
I stand in solidarity with the alleged actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious war-related doings of this government, under Bush and Obama. 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 wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning may have exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justifications rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.
I am standing in solidarity with Private Bradley Manning 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 two years, and has been held without trial for 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.
These are more than sufficient reasons to stand in solidarity with Private Manning and will be until the day he is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Private Manning until that great day.
Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal of All U.S./Allied Troops And Mercenaries From Afghanistan! Hands Off Iran! Free Private Manning Now!
Markin comment:
The Private Bradley Manning case is headed toward a late fall/early winter trial. Those of us who support his cause should redouble our efforts to secure his freedom. For the past several months there has been a weekly stand-out in Greater Boston across from the Davis Square Redline MBTA stop (renamed Bradley Manning Square for the vigil’s duration) in Somerville on Friday afternoons but we have now changed the time from 4:00-5:00 PM on Wednesdays. This stand-out has, to say the least, been very sparsely attended. We need to build it up with more supporters present. Please join us when you can. Or better yet if you can’t join us start a Support Bradley Manning weekly vigil in some location in your town whether it is in the Boston area, Berkeley or Berlin. And please sign the petition for his release. I have placed links to the Manning Network and Manning Square website below.
News has reached me that some of the folks at the Dorchester People for Peace (DPP) are starting a stand-out for Private Manning beginning on Tuesday July 24, 2012 at 4:00 PM at the corner of Dorchester Avenue and Adams Street (the Veterans Triangle) in Fields Corner. Please join them.
Bradley Manning Support Network
http://www.bradleymanning.org/
Somerville Manning Square website
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
The following are remarks that I have been focusing on of late to build support for Bradley Manning’s cause.
Veterans for Peace proudly stands in solidarity with, and defense of, Private Bradley Manning.
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.
I stand in solidarity with the alleged actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious war-related doings of this government, under Bush and Obama. 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 wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning may have exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justifications rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.
I am standing in solidarity with Private Bradley Manning 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 two years, and has been held without trial for 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.
These are more than sufficient reasons to stand in solidarity with Private Manning and will be until the day he is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Private Manning until that great day.
Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal of All U.S./Allied Troops And Mercenaries From Afghanistan! Hands Off Iran! Free Private Manning Now!
Của tăng gấp đôi nỗ lực để Lưu tin Bradley Manning-Hãy Mỗi quảng trường Town Ở Mỹ (và Thế giới) Một Bradley Manning Quảng trường từ Boston Để Berkeley để Berlin-Tham gia hệ Fields Corner (Corner Dorchester Ave Và Adams đường), Dorchester-Bắt đầu từ thứ Ba ngày 24 tháng 7 từ 4:00-05:00
Nhấp chuột vào tiêu đề liên kết với tư nhân Bradley Manning Thỉnh Nguyện Thư trang website.
Markin bình luận:
trường hợp cá nhân Bradley Manning là đầu hướng tới một thử nghiệm cuối mùa thu / mùa đông đầu. Những người trong chúng ta, những người ủng hộ sự nghiệp của mình nên nỗ lực hơn nữa để bảo đảm quyền tự do của mình. Trong vài tháng qua có một tuần đứng ở Greater Boston diện Davis Quảng trường Redline MBTA dừng (đổi tên thành Quảng trường Bradley Manning cho thời gian của buổi cầu nguyện) trong Somerville vào các buổi chiều thứ sáu, nhưng chúng tôi đã thay đổi thời gian từ 4:00 -5:00 PM ngày thứ Tư. Đứng ra này, để nói rằng ít nhất, được tham dự rất thưa thớt. Chúng ta cần phải xây dựng nó với những người ủng hộ nhiều hơn hiện nay. Xin vui lòng tham gia với chúng tôi khi bạn có thể. Hoặc tốt hơn nếu bạn không thể tham gia chúng tôi bắt đầu Hỗ trợ Bradley Manning buổi cầu nguyện hàng tuần ở một số vị trí trong thị trấn của bạn cho dù đó là trong khu vực Boston, Berkeley hay Berlin. Và xin vui lòng ký đơn yêu cầu phát hành của mình. Tôi đã đặt liên kết đến Mạng Manning và Manning trang web quảng trường dưới đây.
Tin tức đã đạt đến tôi rằng một số người ở nhân dân Dorchester vì Hòa bình (DPP) đang bắt đầu đứng ra đầu Manning tư nhân thứ ba 24 tháng 7 năm 2012 lúc 4:00 ở góc Dorchester Avenue và Adams Street ( Cựu chiến binh Tam giác) ở Fields Corner. Hãy tham gia cùng họ.
Bradley Manning Hỗ trợ mạng
http://www.bradleymanning.org/~~V
Somerville Manning Quảng trường trang web
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
Sau đây là nhận xét mà tôi đã được tập trung vào cuối năm để xây dựng hỗ trợ cho nguyên nhân của Bradley Manning.
Cựu chiến binh vì Hòa bình tự hào đứng trong tình đoàn kết với, và bảo vệ, tư nhân Bradley Manning.
Chúng tôi của phong trào chống chiến tranh là không thể làm được gì nhiều để ảnh hưởng đến thời gian biểu chiến Iraq Bush-Obama, nhưng chúng ta có thể tiết kiệm được một người anh hùng của cuộc chiến tranh đó, Bradley Manning.
Tôi đứng trong tình đoàn kết với các hành động của cá nhân Bradley Manning bị cáo buộc trong việc đưa ra ánh sáng, chỉ cần một chút ánh sáng, một số cuộc chiến tranh liên quan đến những việc làm bất chính của chính phủ này, theo Tổng thống Bush và Obama. Nếu ông đã làm hành vi đó là không có tội phạm. Không có tội phạm ở tất cả trong mắt tôi, trong mắt của đại đa số những người biết về vụ việc và có tầm quan trọng của nó như là một hành động cá nhân của khả năng chống bất công và man rợ do Mỹ đứng đầu cuộc chiến tranh ở Iraq và Afghanistan. Tôi ngủ chỉ là một chút bóng râm dễ dàng hơn những ngày này biết rằng Manning tư nhân có thể đã tiếp xúc với những gì tất cả chúng ta đều biết, hoặc đã được biết đến cuộc chiến tranh Iraq và các luận cứ cuộc chiến tranh Afghanistan dựa trên một ngôi nhà của thẻ. Chủ nghĩa đế quốc Mỹ của nhà lạm dụng súng của thẻ, nhưng thẻ vẫn.
Tôi đang đứng trong tình đoàn kết với tư nhân Bradley Manning vì tôi đang bị xúc phạm bởi điều trị lan ra Manning tư nhân, có lẽ là một người đàn ông vô tội, bởi một chính phủ cáo buộc chính nó là một số "ngọn hải đăng" của thế giới văn minh. Bradley Manning đã được tổ chức trong tinh thần đoàn kết ở Quantico và miền địa phương khác trong hơn hai năm, và đã được tổ chức mà không cần xét xử trong thời gian dài, như các chính phủ và quân sự của mình cố gắng để keo một trường hợp lại với nhau. Quân sự, và bọn tay sai của nó trong Bộ Tư pháp, đã nhận được quanh co hơn mặc dù không thông minh hơn kể từ khi tôi là một người lính trong crosshairs của họ hơn bốn mươi năm trước đây.
Đây là những nhiều hơn lý do đủ để đứng trong sự liên đới với Manning tư nhân và sẽ được cho đến ngày ông được tự do cai ngục của mình. Và tôi sẽ tiếp tục đứng trong đoàn kết tự hào với Manning tin cho đến khi mà ngày tuyệt vời.
Thu hồi ngay lập tức vô điều kiện Tất cả các binh sĩ Mỹ / Đồng minh và lính đánh thuê Từ Afghanistan! Hands Off Iran! Manning tin miễn phí ngay!
Markin bình luận:
trường hợp cá nhân Bradley Manning là đầu hướng tới một thử nghiệm cuối mùa thu / mùa đông đầu. Những người trong chúng ta, những người ủng hộ sự nghiệp của mình nên nỗ lực hơn nữa để bảo đảm quyền tự do của mình. Trong vài tháng qua có một tuần đứng ở Greater Boston diện Davis Quảng trường Redline MBTA dừng (đổi tên thành Quảng trường Bradley Manning cho thời gian của buổi cầu nguyện) trong Somerville vào các buổi chiều thứ sáu, nhưng chúng tôi đã thay đổi thời gian từ 4:00 -5:00 PM ngày thứ Tư. Đứng ra này, để nói rằng ít nhất, được tham dự rất thưa thớt. Chúng ta cần phải xây dựng nó với những người ủng hộ nhiều hơn hiện nay. Xin vui lòng tham gia với chúng tôi khi bạn có thể. Hoặc tốt hơn nếu bạn không thể tham gia chúng tôi bắt đầu Hỗ trợ Bradley Manning buổi cầu nguyện hàng tuần ở một số vị trí trong thị trấn của bạn cho dù đó là trong khu vực Boston, Berkeley hay Berlin. Và xin vui lòng ký đơn yêu cầu phát hành của mình. Tôi đã đặt liên kết đến Mạng Manning và Manning trang web quảng trường dưới đây.
Tin tức đã đạt đến tôi rằng một số người ở nhân dân Dorchester vì Hòa bình (DPP) đang bắt đầu đứng ra đầu Manning tư nhân thứ ba 24 tháng 7 năm 2012 lúc 4:00 ở góc Dorchester Avenue và Adams Street ( Cựu chiến binh Tam giác) ở Fields Corner. Hãy tham gia cùng họ.
Bradley Manning Hỗ trợ mạng
http://www.bradleymanning.org/~~V
Somerville Manning Quảng trường trang web
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
Sau đây là nhận xét mà tôi đã được tập trung vào cuối năm để xây dựng hỗ trợ cho nguyên nhân của Bradley Manning.
Cựu chiến binh vì Hòa bình tự hào đứng trong tình đoàn kết với, và bảo vệ, tư nhân Bradley Manning.
Chúng tôi của phong trào chống chiến tranh là không thể làm được gì nhiều để ảnh hưởng đến thời gian biểu chiến Iraq Bush-Obama, nhưng chúng ta có thể tiết kiệm được một người anh hùng của cuộc chiến tranh đó, Bradley Manning.
Tôi đứng trong tình đoàn kết với các hành động của cá nhân Bradley Manning bị cáo buộc trong việc đưa ra ánh sáng, chỉ cần một chút ánh sáng, một số cuộc chiến tranh liên quan đến những việc làm bất chính của chính phủ này, theo Tổng thống Bush và Obama. Nếu ông đã làm hành vi đó là không có tội phạm. Không có tội phạm ở tất cả trong mắt tôi, trong mắt của đại đa số những người biết về vụ việc và có tầm quan trọng của nó như là một hành động cá nhân của khả năng chống bất công và man rợ do Mỹ đứng đầu cuộc chiến tranh ở Iraq và Afghanistan. Tôi ngủ chỉ là một chút bóng râm dễ dàng hơn những ngày này biết rằng Manning tư nhân có thể đã tiếp xúc với những gì tất cả chúng ta đều biết, hoặc đã được biết đến cuộc chiến tranh Iraq và các luận cứ cuộc chiến tranh Afghanistan dựa trên một ngôi nhà của thẻ. Chủ nghĩa đế quốc Mỹ của nhà lạm dụng súng của thẻ, nhưng thẻ vẫn.
Tôi đang đứng trong tình đoàn kết với tư nhân Bradley Manning vì tôi đang bị xúc phạm bởi điều trị lan ra Manning tư nhân, có lẽ là một người đàn ông vô tội, bởi một chính phủ cáo buộc chính nó là một số "ngọn hải đăng" của thế giới văn minh. Bradley Manning đã được tổ chức trong tinh thần đoàn kết ở Quantico và miền địa phương khác trong hơn hai năm, và đã được tổ chức mà không cần xét xử trong thời gian dài, như các chính phủ và quân sự của mình cố gắng để keo một trường hợp lại với nhau. Quân sự, và bọn tay sai của nó trong Bộ Tư pháp, đã nhận được quanh co hơn mặc dù không thông minh hơn kể từ khi tôi là một người lính trong crosshairs của họ hơn bốn mươi năm trước đây.
Đây là những nhiều hơn lý do đủ để đứng trong sự liên đới với Manning tư nhân và sẽ được cho đến ngày ông được tự do cai ngục của mình. Và tôi sẽ tiếp tục đứng trong đoàn kết tự hào với Manning tin cho đến khi mà ngày tuyệt vời.
Thu hồi ngay lập tức vô điều kiện Tất cả các binh sĩ Mỹ / Đồng minh và lính đánh thuê Từ Afghanistan! Hands Off Iran! Manning tin miễn phí ngay!
Vamos a redoblar nuestros esfuerzos para salvar privado Bradley Manning-Que todas las Plaza de la Ciudad en América (y El Mundo) Un Bradley Manning Square De Boston a Berkeley para nosotros Berlín-Join In Fields Corner (Rincón de Dorchester Ave. y la calle Adams), Dorchester-A partir del martes 24 de julio de 4:00-5:00 pm
Haga clic en el titular para enlazar con el privado Bradley Manning Petición página web.
comentario Markin:
El caso de Bradley Manning privada se dirige hacia un otoño / invierno temprano ensayo. Aquellos de nosotros que apoyan su causa, debemos redoblar nuestros esfuerzos para asegurar su libertad. Para los últimos meses ha habido una semana de espera en el área metropolitana de Boston frente a la Plaza de Davis Redline MBTA parada (rebautizada Plaza de Bradley Manning para la duración de la vigilia) en Somerville viernes por la tarde, pero ahora hemos cambiado el tiempo de 4:00 5:00 pm los miércoles. Esta posición de salida tiene, por decir lo menos, ha sido muy poca asistencia. Tenemos que construir con más seguidores presentes. Por favor, únase a nosotros cuando pueda. O mejor aún si usted no puede unirse a nosotros iniciar una vigilia de apoyo Bradley Manning la semana en algún lugar en su ciudad ya sea en el área de Boston, Berkeley o Berlín. Y por favor, firmen la petición para su liberación. He puesto enlaces a la red de Manning y Manning sitio web de la plaza de abajo.
Noticias que me ha llegado a que algunos de los chicos de las personas Dorchester por la Paz (PDP) está comenzando un stand-out para el comienzo de Manning el martes 24 de julio 2012 a las 4:00 PM en la esquina de Dorchester Avenida y la calle Adams (el Veteranos de triángulo) en Fields Corner. Por favor, únete a ellos.
Bradley Manning Support Network
http://www.bradleymanning.org/~~V
Somerville Manning Plaza de página web
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
Los siguientes son comentarios que se han centrado en los últimos tiempos para conseguir apoyo para la causa Bradley Manning.
Veteranos por la Paz se yergue en la solidaridad y la defensa de los soldado Bradley Manning.
Nosotros, los del movimiento anti-guerra no pudieron hacer mucho para afectar el gobierno de Bush-Obama Irak calendario guerra, pero podemos salvar uno de los héroes de esa guerra, Bradley Manning.
Estoy en solidaridad con las supuestas acciones de soldado Bradley Manning en sacar a la luz, sólo un poco de luz, algunos de los nefastos hechos relacionados con la guerra de este gobierno, el gobierno de Bush y Obama. Si lo hiciera tales actos no son delito. Ningún crimen en absoluto en mis ojos o en los ojos de la gran mayoría de la gente que conoce del caso y de su importancia como un acto individual de resistencia a las injustas y bárbaras encabezadas por Estados Unidos las guerras en Irak y Afganistán. Duermo un poco de sombra más fácil en estos días a sabiendas de que Manning podría haber expuesto lo que todos sabían, o debían haber sabido, la guerra de Irak y de las justificaciones de la guerra afgana se basaba en un castillo de naipes. El imperialismo estadounidense pistolero castillo de naipes, pero las tarjetas, sin embargo.
Estoy de pie en solidaridad con el soldado Bradley Manning, porque estoy indignado por el trato dado a Manning, presumiblemente un hombre inocente, por un gobierno que afirma a sí misma como un "faro" del mundo civilizado. Bradley Manning se había celebrado en la solidaridad en Quantico y otras localidades de más de dos años, y ha sido detenido sin juicio durante más tiempo, ya que el gobierno y sus fuerzas armadas tratan de pegar un caso juntos. Los militares y sus secuaces en el Departamento de Justicia, se han vuelto más tortuosa, aunque no más inteligente desde que era un soldado en la mira más de cuarenta años.
Estas son razones más que suficientes para estar en solidaridad con el soldado Manning y lo será hasta el día en que es liberado por sus carceleros. Y voy a seguir para estar en solidaridad con el soldado Manning orgullosos hasta ese gran día.
La retirada inmediata e incondicional de todas las tropas estadounidenses / Allied y mercenarios de Afganistán! Manos Fuera de Irán! Manning gratis PRIVADAS ahora mismo!
comentario Markin:
El caso de Bradley Manning privada se dirige hacia un otoño / invierno temprano ensayo. Aquellos de nosotros que apoyan su causa, debemos redoblar nuestros esfuerzos para asegurar su libertad. Para los últimos meses ha habido una semana de espera en el área metropolitana de Boston frente a la Plaza de Davis Redline MBTA parada (rebautizada Plaza de Bradley Manning para la duración de la vigilia) en Somerville viernes por la tarde, pero ahora hemos cambiado el tiempo de 4:00 5:00 pm los miércoles. Esta posición de salida tiene, por decir lo menos, ha sido muy poca asistencia. Tenemos que construir con más seguidores presentes. Por favor, únase a nosotros cuando pueda. O mejor aún si usted no puede unirse a nosotros iniciar una vigilia de apoyo Bradley Manning la semana en algún lugar en su ciudad ya sea en el área de Boston, Berkeley o Berlín. Y por favor, firmen la petición para su liberación. He puesto enlaces a la red de Manning y Manning sitio web de la plaza de abajo.
Noticias que me ha llegado a que algunos de los chicos de las personas Dorchester por la Paz (PDP) está comenzando un stand-out para el comienzo de Manning el martes 24 de julio 2012 a las 4:00 PM en la esquina de Dorchester Avenida y la calle Adams (el Veteranos de triángulo) en Fields Corner. Por favor, únete a ellos.
Bradley Manning Support Network
http://www.bradleymanning.org/~~V
Somerville Manning Plaza de página web
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
Los siguientes son comentarios que se han centrado en los últimos tiempos para conseguir apoyo para la causa Bradley Manning.
Veteranos por la Paz se yergue en la solidaridad y la defensa de los soldado Bradley Manning.
Nosotros, los del movimiento anti-guerra no pudieron hacer mucho para afectar el gobierno de Bush-Obama Irak calendario guerra, pero podemos salvar uno de los héroes de esa guerra, Bradley Manning.
Estoy en solidaridad con las supuestas acciones de soldado Bradley Manning en sacar a la luz, sólo un poco de luz, algunos de los nefastos hechos relacionados con la guerra de este gobierno, el gobierno de Bush y Obama. Si lo hiciera tales actos no son delito. Ningún crimen en absoluto en mis ojos o en los ojos de la gran mayoría de la gente que conoce del caso y de su importancia como un acto individual de resistencia a las injustas y bárbaras encabezadas por Estados Unidos las guerras en Irak y Afganistán. Duermo un poco de sombra más fácil en estos días a sabiendas de que Manning podría haber expuesto lo que todos sabían, o debían haber sabido, la guerra de Irak y de las justificaciones de la guerra afgana se basaba en un castillo de naipes. El imperialismo estadounidense pistolero castillo de naipes, pero las tarjetas, sin embargo.
Estoy de pie en solidaridad con el soldado Bradley Manning, porque estoy indignado por el trato dado a Manning, presumiblemente un hombre inocente, por un gobierno que afirma a sí misma como un "faro" del mundo civilizado. Bradley Manning se había celebrado en la solidaridad en Quantico y otras localidades de más de dos años, y ha sido detenido sin juicio durante más tiempo, ya que el gobierno y sus fuerzas armadas tratan de pegar un caso juntos. Los militares y sus secuaces en el Departamento de Justicia, se han vuelto más tortuosa, aunque no más inteligente desde que era un soldado en la mira más de cuarenta años.
Estas son razones más que suficientes para estar en solidaridad con el soldado Manning y lo será hasta el día en que es liberado por sus carceleros. Y voy a seguir para estar en solidaridad con el soldado Manning orgullosos hasta ese gran día.
La retirada inmediata e incondicional de todas las tropas estadounidenses / Allied y mercenarios de Afganistán! Manos Fuera de Irán! Manning gratis PRIVADAS ahora mismo!
Se pou yo redouble efò pou nou Pou Save Prive Bradley Manning-Fè tout Kare vil nan Amerik (ak sou latè a) Yon Bradley Manning Kare ki soti nan Boston Pou Berkeley Bèlen-Vini patisipe nan kwen Fields (Kwen Dorchester Ave ak Adams Street), Dorchester-Apati Madi Jiyè 24 Soti nan 4:00-5:00 PM
Se pou yo redouble efò pou nou Pou Save Prive Bradley Manning-Fè tout Kare vil nan Amerik (ak sou latè a) Yon Bradley Manning Kare ki soti nan Boston Pou Berkeley Bèlen-Vini patisipe nan kwen Fields (Kwen Dorchester Ave ak Adams Street), Dorchester-Apati Madi Jiyè 24 Soti nan 4:00-5:00 PM
http://www.standwithbrad.org/~~V
Klike sou tit la Link to Prive Bradley Manning Petisyon paj la sou sit wèb.
Markin Comment:
an prive Bradley Manning ka a te dirije nan direksyon yon sezon otòn anreta / bonè jijman sezon fredi. Moun nan nou ki sipòte kòz li ta dwe redouble efò pou nou asire libète l 'yo. Pou mwa ki sot pase plizyè te gen yon chak semèn kanpe a-soti nan Greater Boston atravè soti nan arè Davis Square MBTA a rdlin (rnome Bradley Manning Square pou dire viji a) nan Somerville nan Vandredi apremidi men nou gen koulye a chanje tan an sòti 4:00 -5:00 PM nan mèkredi. Sa a kanpe a-soti la, di omwen a, yo te trè fèbleman ale. Nou bezwen bati l 'ak plis sipòtè prezan. Tanpri mete lè w kapab. Oswa pi bon toujou si ou pa ka rantre nan nou kòmanse yon Sipò pou Bradley Manning chak semèn viji nan kèk kote nan vil ou a si li se nan zòn Boston an, Berkeley oswa Bèlen. Ak tanpri siyen petisyon an pou yo lage l 'yo. Mwen mete lyen ki mennen nan Rezo a Manning ak atitid Kare sit entènèt ki anba a.
Nouvèl te rive m 'ke kèk nan jan yo nan Moun yo Dorchester pou Lapè (DPP) ap kòmanse yon kanpe a-soti pou kòmansman Manning Prive nan Madi, 24 jiyè 2012 a 4:00 pm nan kwen an nan Dorchester Avenue ak Adams Street (nan Veteran Triyang) nan kwen Fields. Tanpri antre nan yo.
Bradley Manning rezo soutyen
http://www.bradleymanning.org/~~V
Somerville Manning Kare sou sit wèb
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
Sa yo se remak ke mwen te konsantre sou nan byen ta nan bati sipò pou kòz Bradley Manning la.
Veteran pou lapè fyète kanpe an solidarite ak yo, ak defans nan prive, Bradley Manning.
Nou nan mouvman anti-lagè pa t 'kapab fè anpil afekte Bush-Obama Irak Lagè anplwa a, men nou ka sove ewo nan youn nan lagè sa, Bradley Manning.
Mwen kanpe an solidarite avèk aksyon yo sipoze a Manning Prive Bradley nan pote nan limyè, jis yon ti limyè, kèk nan yo mennen bak yo vye lagè ki gen rapò ak nan gouvènman sa a, anba Bush ak Obama. Si li te fè zak sa yo, yo pa krim. Pa gen krim nan tout nan je m 'oswa nan je yo kote a vas majorite de moun ki konnen nan ka a ak nan enpòtans li kòm yon zak moun ki nan rezistans nan lagè yo enjis ak barbarism Ameriken-dirije nan Irak ak Afganistan. Mwen dòmi jis yon lonbraj ti jan pi fasil jou sa yo konnen ke Manning Prive yo kab te ekspoze sa nou tout te konnen, oswa te dwe li te ye-Irak lagè a ak lalwa yo lagè Afganestan repoze sou yon kay nan kat. Zam-toting kay Ameriken enperyalis la nan kat, men kat kanmenm.
M'ap rete kanpe an solidarite ak Manning Prive Bradley paske mwen pa imilye tretman an enflije soti nan Manning prive, prezimableman yon moun inonsan, pa yon gouvènman ki akize li gen kèk "Beacon" nan mond lan sivilize. Bradley Manning te fèt nan solidarite nan lokal Quantico ak lòt pou pase de ane, e li te fèt san jije pou pi lontan, kòm gouvènman an ak militè li yo eseye lakòl yon ka ansanm. Te militè a, ak henchmen li yo nan Depatman Lajistis la, vinn plis detourne Malgre ke pa pi entelijan depi m 'te yon sòlda nan retikul yo sou karant ane de sa.
Sa yo, se plis pase rezon ase kanpe an solidarite ak Manning Prive ak ap jouk jou a se li ki te libere pa jolye l 'yo. Apre sa, mwen pral kontinye kanpe an solidarite ak fyè Manning Prive jouk jou sa a anpil.
Piblikasyon Imedyat Anilasyon enkondisyonèl nan tout twoup Etazini / Alye ¶ mèrsenèr Soti nan Afganistan! Men Off Iran! Gratis Manning Prive Kounye a!
http://www.standwithbrad.org/~~V
Klike sou tit la Link to Prive Bradley Manning Petisyon paj la sou sit wèb.
Markin Comment:
an prive Bradley Manning ka a te dirije nan direksyon yon sezon otòn anreta / bonè jijman sezon fredi. Moun nan nou ki sipòte kòz li ta dwe redouble efò pou nou asire libète l 'yo. Pou mwa ki sot pase plizyè te gen yon chak semèn kanpe a-soti nan Greater Boston atravè soti nan arè Davis Square MBTA a rdlin (rnome Bradley Manning Square pou dire viji a) nan Somerville nan Vandredi apremidi men nou gen koulye a chanje tan an sòti 4:00 -5:00 PM nan mèkredi. Sa a kanpe a-soti la, di omwen a, yo te trè fèbleman ale. Nou bezwen bati l 'ak plis sipòtè prezan. Tanpri mete lè w kapab. Oswa pi bon toujou si ou pa ka rantre nan nou kòmanse yon Sipò pou Bradley Manning chak semèn viji nan kèk kote nan vil ou a si li se nan zòn Boston an, Berkeley oswa Bèlen. Ak tanpri siyen petisyon an pou yo lage l 'yo. Mwen mete lyen ki mennen nan Rezo a Manning ak atitid Kare sit entènèt ki anba a.
Nouvèl te rive m 'ke kèk nan jan yo nan Moun yo Dorchester pou Lapè (DPP) ap kòmanse yon kanpe a-soti pou kòmansman Manning Prive nan Madi, 24 jiyè 2012 a 4:00 pm nan kwen an nan Dorchester Avenue ak Adams Street (nan Veteran Triyang) nan kwen Fields. Tanpri antre nan yo.
Bradley Manning rezo soutyen
http://www.bradleymanning.org/~~V
Somerville Manning Kare sou sit wèb
http://freemanz.com/2012/01/20/somerville_paper_photo-bradmanningsquare/bradleymanningsquare-2011_01_13/
Sa yo se remak ke mwen te konsantre sou nan byen ta nan bati sipò pou kòz Bradley Manning la.
Veteran pou lapè fyète kanpe an solidarite ak yo, ak defans nan prive, Bradley Manning.
Nou nan mouvman anti-lagè pa t 'kapab fè anpil afekte Bush-Obama Irak Lagè anplwa a, men nou ka sove ewo nan youn nan lagè sa, Bradley Manning.
Mwen kanpe an solidarite avèk aksyon yo sipoze a Manning Prive Bradley nan pote nan limyè, jis yon ti limyè, kèk nan yo mennen bak yo vye lagè ki gen rapò ak nan gouvènman sa a, anba Bush ak Obama. Si li te fè zak sa yo, yo pa krim. Pa gen krim nan tout nan je m 'oswa nan je yo kote a vas majorite de moun ki konnen nan ka a ak nan enpòtans li kòm yon zak moun ki nan rezistans nan lagè yo enjis ak barbarism Ameriken-dirije nan Irak ak Afganistan. Mwen dòmi jis yon lonbraj ti jan pi fasil jou sa yo konnen ke Manning Prive yo kab te ekspoze sa nou tout te konnen, oswa te dwe li te ye-Irak lagè a ak lalwa yo lagè Afganestan repoze sou yon kay nan kat. Zam-toting kay Ameriken enperyalis la nan kat, men kat kanmenm.
M'ap rete kanpe an solidarite ak Manning Prive Bradley paske mwen pa imilye tretman an enflije soti nan Manning prive, prezimableman yon moun inonsan, pa yon gouvènman ki akize li gen kèk "Beacon" nan mond lan sivilize. Bradley Manning te fèt nan solidarite nan lokal Quantico ak lòt pou pase de ane, e li te fèt san jije pou pi lontan, kòm gouvènman an ak militè li yo eseye lakòl yon ka ansanm. Te militè a, ak henchmen li yo nan Depatman Lajistis la, vinn plis detourne Malgre ke pa pi entelijan depi m 'te yon sòlda nan retikul yo sou karant ane de sa.
Sa yo, se plis pase rezon ase kanpe an solidarite ak Manning Prive ak ap jouk jou a se li ki te libere pa jolye l 'yo. Apre sa, mwen pral kontinye kanpe an solidarite ak fyè Manning Prive jouk jou sa a anpil.
Piblikasyon Imedyat Anilasyon enkondisyonèl nan tout twoup Etazini / Alye ¶ mèrsenèr Soti nan Afganistan! Men Off Iran! Gratis Manning Prive Kounye a!
Saturday, July 21, 2012
From #Un-Occupied Boston (#Un-Tomemonos Boston)-General Assembly-An Embryo Of An Alternate Government Gone Wrong-What Happens When We Do Not Learn The Lessons Of History- The Pre-1848 Socialist Movement-Auguste Blanqui 1833-34-Organization of the Society of Families
Click on the headline to link to the Occupy Boston General Assembly Minutes website. Occupy Boston started at 6:00 PM, September 30, 2011.
Markin comment:
I will post any updates from that site if there are any serious discussions of the way forward for the Occupy movement or, more importantly, any analysis of the now atrophied and dysfunctional General Assembly concept. In the meantime I will continue with the “Lessons From History “ series started in the Fall of 2011 with Karl Marx’s The Civil War In France-1871 (The defense of the Paris Commune). Right now this series is focused on the European socialist movement before the Revolutions of 1848.
****
An Injury To One Is An Injury To All!-Defend The Occupy Movement And All Occupiers! Drop All Charges Against All Occupy Protesters Everywhere!
********
Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It Back! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
********
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 for public and private workers to unionize.
* Defend the working classes! No union dues for Democratic (or the stray Republican) candidates. Spent the dough instead on organizing the unorganized and on other labor-specific causes (good example, the November, 2011 anti-union recall referendum in Ohio, bad example the Wisconsin gubernatorial recall race in June 2012).
*End the endless wars!- Immediate, Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops (And Mercenaries) From Afghanistan! Hands Off Pakistan! Hands Off Iran! U.S. 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!
***********
Auguste Blanqui 1833-34-Organization of the Society of Families
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Source: Oeuvres, Vol I. Textes rassemblés et presentés par Dominique Le Nuz. Presses universitaires de Nancy, 1993;
Translated: for marxists.org by Mitch Abidor;
CopyLeft: Creative Commons (Attribute & ShareAlike) marxists.org 2004.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Each fraction of the society is called a family.
The family is made up of five initiated, who meet twice a month under the presidency of a chief named by the center.
In order to be admitted one must be of age, have a good reputation and good conduct, justify one’s means of existence, and be gifted with great discretion.
Proposals for membership are made within the family, which discusses the merits of the candidate and can refuse or accept him.
The names, estate, and lodging of the candidate are immediately sent to the center so that scrupulous investigation can be made concerning the morality, sobriety, discretion and energy of the candidate.
No opening should be made before this information is addressed to the chief of the family.
If the opening is accepted the presenter turns over to the candidate a series of questions that he must answer prior to his reception.
Receptions are made blindfolded by the chief of the family, in the presence of the proposed member alone.
In so far as it is possible, they must take place during the day and, in any event, in the light.
The chief of the family must never forget to say to the recipient that no trace remains of what is done, that it is impossible for the police to discover anything, and that consequently no confession must ever be made in court, under penalty of passing for a traitor and being punished as such.
The recipient must be made to feel the importance of entering the National Guard.
Questions should be posed on arms and munitions.
The work is directed by the chief of the family who, at the opening of sessions, makes a report on what transpired at the previous session.
The work is terminated by proposals, presentations, and the collecting of dues.
Markin comment:
I will post any updates from that site if there are any serious discussions of the way forward for the Occupy movement or, more importantly, any analysis of the now atrophied and dysfunctional General Assembly concept. In the meantime I will continue with the “Lessons From History “ series started in the Fall of 2011 with Karl Marx’s The Civil War In France-1871 (The defense of the Paris Commune). Right now this series is focused on the European socialist movement before the Revolutions of 1848.
****
An Injury To One Is An Injury To All!-Defend The Occupy Movement And All Occupiers! Drop All Charges Against All Occupy Protesters Everywhere!
********
Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It Back! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
********
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 for public and private workers to unionize.
* Defend the working classes! No union dues for Democratic (or the stray Republican) candidates. Spent the dough instead on organizing the unorganized and on other labor-specific causes (good example, the November, 2011 anti-union recall referendum in Ohio, bad example the Wisconsin gubernatorial recall race in June 2012).
*End the endless wars!- Immediate, Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops (And Mercenaries) From Afghanistan! Hands Off Pakistan! Hands Off Iran! U.S. 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!
***********
Auguste Blanqui 1833-34-Organization of the Society of Families
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Source: Oeuvres, Vol I. Textes rassemblés et presentés par Dominique Le Nuz. Presses universitaires de Nancy, 1993;
Translated: for marxists.org by Mitch Abidor;
CopyLeft: Creative Commons (Attribute & ShareAlike) marxists.org 2004.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Each fraction of the society is called a family.
The family is made up of five initiated, who meet twice a month under the presidency of a chief named by the center.
In order to be admitted one must be of age, have a good reputation and good conduct, justify one’s means of existence, and be gifted with great discretion.
Proposals for membership are made within the family, which discusses the merits of the candidate and can refuse or accept him.
The names, estate, and lodging of the candidate are immediately sent to the center so that scrupulous investigation can be made concerning the morality, sobriety, discretion and energy of the candidate.
No opening should be made before this information is addressed to the chief of the family.
If the opening is accepted the presenter turns over to the candidate a series of questions that he must answer prior to his reception.
Receptions are made blindfolded by the chief of the family, in the presence of the proposed member alone.
In so far as it is possible, they must take place during the day and, in any event, in the light.
The chief of the family must never forget to say to the recipient that no trace remains of what is done, that it is impossible for the police to discover anything, and that consequently no confession must ever be made in court, under penalty of passing for a traitor and being punished as such.
The recipient must be made to feel the importance of entering the National Guard.
Questions should be posed on arms and munitions.
The work is directed by the chief of the family who, at the opening of sessions, makes a report on what transpired at the previous session.
The work is terminated by proposals, presentations, and the collecting of dues.
The Never-ending Miners Struggles- The Battle of Blair Mountain
The Battle of Blair Mountain
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"These miners knew the dynamics of capitalism and the role of government. They knew who their friends and enemies were. They knew that only by organizing and physically defying centers of power would they ever get justice. They did not trust authority. They did not wait for authority figures to dole out justice. They were not seduced by the empty rhetoric of politicians. They knew that if they wanted a better world they would have to be their own leaders. They would have to fight for it. And this is a lesson in the nature of corporate and governmental power that we have forgotten. We must make the powerful afraid of us if we are to get any semblance of an open and free society. They are not and never will be on our side."
The Battle of Blair Mountain
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/the_battle_of_blair_mountain_20120716/
Posted on Jul 16, 2012
By Chris Hedges
Joe Sacco and I, one afternoon when we were working in southern West Virginia on our book “Days of Destruction, Days of Revolt,” parked our car on the side of a road. We walked with Kenny King into the woods covering the slopes of Blair Mountain. King is leading an effort to halt companies from extracting coal by blasting apart the mountain, the site in the early 1920s of the largest armed insurrection in the United States since the Civil War.
Blair Mountain, amid today’s rising corporate exploitation and state repression, represents a piece of American history that corporate capitalists, and especially the coal companies, would have us forget. It is a reminder that citizens have a right to resist a corporate machine intent on subjugating them. It is a reminder that all the openings of our democracy were achieved with the toil, anguish and sometimes blood of radicals and popular fronts, from labor unions to anarchists, socialists and communists. But this is not approved history. We are instructed by the power elite to worship at approved shrines—plantation estates erected for wealthy slaveholders and land speculators such as George Washington, or the gilded domes of authority in the nation’s capital.
As we walked, King, a member of the Friends of Blair Mountain, an organization formed to have the site declared a national park, swept a metal detector over the soil. When it went off he knelt. He dug with a trowel until he unearthed a bullet casing, which he handed to me. I recognized it as a .30-30, the kind of ammunition my grandfather and I used when we hunted deer in Maine. Winchester lever-action rifles, which took the .30-30 round, were widely used by the rebellious miners.
In late August and early September 1921 in West Virginia’s Logan County as many as 15,000 armed miners, some of them allegedly provided with weapons by the United Mine Workers of America, mounted an insurrection after a series of assassinations of union leaders and their chief supporters, as well as mass evictions, blacklistings and wholesale firings by coal companies determined to break union organizing. Miners in other coal fields across the United States had concluded a strike that lasted two months and ended with a 27 percent pay increase. The miners in West Virginia and eastern Kentucky wanted the same. They wanted to be freed from the debt peonage of the company stores, to be paid fairly for their work, to have better safety in the mines, to fight back against the judges, politicians, journalists and civil authorities who had sold out to Big Coal, and to have a union. They grasped that unchallenged and unregulated corporate power was a form of enslavement. And they grasped that it was only through a union that they had any hope of winning.
Joe and I visited the grave of Sid Hatfield in a hilltop cemetery near the Tug River in Buskirk, Ky. The headstone, which is engraved with an image of Hatfield’s face, reads in part: “Defender of the rights of working people, gunned down by Felts detectives on the steps of the McDowell County Courthouse. . … His murder triggered the miners’ rebellion at the Battle of Blair Mountain.” Hatfield’s brief life is a microcosm of what can happen when one does not sell out to the powerful. The police chief of Matewan, W.Va., he turned down the coal companies’ offer of what was then the small fortune of $300 a month to turn against the miners. Law enforcement, with the exception of a few renegades such as Hatfield, was stripped, as is true now in corporate America, of any pretense of impartiality. Miners who wanted jobs had to sign “yaller dog” contracts promising they would not “affiliate with or assist or give aid to any labor organization,” under penalty of immediate loss of jobs and company housing. Baldwin-Felts spies, private security goons hired by the mine owners, informed on miners who talked of organizing. This led to dismissal, blacklisting, beating and sometimes death. The coal fields were dominated by company towns. Corporate power had seeped into every facet of existence. And resistance was costly.
“For more than twenty years, coal operators had controlled their very being; had arranged for their homes and towns, churches, schools, and recreation centers; had provided doctors and teachers and preachers; had employed many of their law officers; had even selected silent motion picture shows that were beginning to appear in theaters; had told them, finally, where and how they were to live and discharged those who did not conform,” Lon Savage wrote of the coal miners in his book “Thunder in the Mountains.” “In this context, the union’s organizing campaign gave the miners a new vision: not only better pay and working conditions but independence, power, freedom, justice, and prestige for people who felt they had lost them all.”
Denise Giardina, in her lyrical and moving novel of the mine wars, “Storming Heaven,” has union organizer Rondal Lloyd wonder what it is that finally makes a passive and cowed population rebel.
“Who can say why the miners were ready to listen to me?” he asks. “They broke their backs and died of roof falls and rib rolls and gas, their children went to bed hungry, and died of the typhoid, their wives took the consumption, they themselves coughed and spit up. True enough. They stayed in debt to the company store, they had no say at the mine or freedom of any kind, they could be let go at a moment’s notice and put out in the road, or beaten, or shot. All true. But it had always been that way, and they never fought back. Everything had always been the way it was, we were all pilgrims of sorrow, and only Jesus or the Virgin Mary could make it right. So why did they listen this time? Why did they decide that Jesus might not wait two thousand years for the kingdom to come, that Jesus might kick a little ass in the here and now?”
“Hell, it aint got nothing to do with Jesus,” the character Talcott tells him. “Half of em dont believe in Jesus. They just stood all they can stand, and they dont care for it.”
Sound familiar? It is an old and cruel tactic in any company town. Reduce wages and benefits to subsistence level. Break unions. Gut social assistance programs. Buy and sell elected officials and judges. Fill the airwaves with mindless diversion and corporate propaganda. Pay off the press. Poison the soil, the air and the water to extract natural resources and leave behind a devastated wasteland. Plunge workers into debt. Leave them owing more on their houses than the structures are worth. Make sure the children will be burdened by tens of thousands of dollars lent to them for an education and will be unable to find decent jobs. Make sure that everything from hospital bills to car payments to credit card fees exact increasing pounds of flesh. And when workers stumble, when they cannot pay soaring interest rates, jack up rates further and deploy predators from debt collection agencies to harass the debtors and seize their assets. Then toss them away. Company towns all look the same. And we live in the biggest one on earth.
The coal companies, to break a strike in the spring of 1920, sent in squads of Baldwin-Felts detectives, nicknamed “gun thugs” by the miners, to evict miners and their families from company housing. Soon hundreds of families were living in squalid, muddy tent encampments. During an eviction on May 19 of about a dozen miners and their families—in which, as today, possessions were carted out and dumped into the street—Hatfield ordered the arrest of the company goons. He confronted the “gun thugs” at the train station at Matewan after the evictions. Shooting broke out. When it was over, seven Baldwin-Felts detectives, including Albert and Lee Felts, were dead. Another detective was wounded. Two miners were killed. Matewan’s mayor, Cabell Testerman, was mortally wounded. The gun battle emboldened the miners. By July there was almost no coal coming out of the mines.
“It is freedom or death, and your children will be free,” Mother Jones told the miners. “We are not going to leave a slave class to the coming generation, and I want to say to you the next generation will not charge us for what we have done; they will charge and condemn us for what we have left undone.”
Hatfield was acquitted of murder charges in January 1921. The decision infuriated the mine owners. And Hatfield became a marked man. After his acquittal of murder, coal bosses had him charged with dynamiting a coal tipple. When Hatfield and his young wife, as well as a friend, Ed Chambers, and Chambers’ wife, walked up the courthouse steps in Welch, W.Va., for the new trial, the two men were assassinated by Baldwin-Felts agents standing at the top. The assassinations set off the insurrection and triggered the Blair Mountain rebellion. The coal owners hastily organized militias and recruited units of heavily armed law enforcement officers. They hired private airplanes to drop homemade explosives on miners encamped on the mountain. Billy Mitchell, one of the early advocates of air power, volunteered the Army’s 88th Squadron to carry out aerial surveillance for the coal companies.
The armed miners, many of them veterans of World War I, fought militias and police, who were equipped with heavy machine guns, for five days. The militias and police held back advancing miners from a trench system that is still visible on a ridge top. The Army was finally ordered into the coal fields in early September 1921 to quell the rebellion. The miners surrendered. By the time the battle ended, at least 30 of those defending the mine owners had been killed along with perhaps as many as 100 rebel miners. West Virginia indicted 1,217 miners in the rebellion, charging some with murder and treason. There were acquittals, but many miners spent several years in prison. The union was effectively broken. In 1920 there had been about 50,000 United Mine Workers members in West Virginia, and by 1929 there were only 600. The union did not reconstitute itself until 1935, after the Roosevelt administration legalized union organizing.
These miners knew the dynamics of capitalism and the role of government. They knew who their friends and enemies were. They knew that only by organizing and physically defying centers of power would they ever get justice. They did not trust authority. They did not wait for authority figures to dole out justice. They were not seduced by the empty rhetoric of politicians. They knew that if they wanted a better world they would have to be their own leaders. They would have to fight for it. And this is a lesson in the nature of corporate and governmental power that we have forgotten. We must make the powerful afraid of us if we are to get any semblance of an open and free society. They are not and never will be on our side.
“The hatreds instilled in the union miners for their bosses and erstwhile friends were a new twisting and darkening influence in the whole society of the plateau,” wrote Harry M. Caudill in “Night Comes to the Cumberlands.” “For a whole generation of workingmen such abhorrence became second nature and was directed indiscriminately at any thing or idea originating within the offices of company officials. In later years, after the Second World War, the larger companies sent a new generation of youthful executives into the region for the purpose of ameliorating this deeply rooted animosity, but even their Rotary-learned jocularity and genial expansiveness could not soften the bias of men whose aversion had become hardcrusted in the heat of bitter union drives.”
The coal companies have erased this piece of history from school textbooks. It is too inconvenient. It exposes predatory capitalism’s ruthless commodification and exploitation of human beings and the natural world. It exposes the drive by corporations to keep us impoverished, disempowered and unorganized. If corporate forces can sanitize history, if they can ensure historical amnesia, then the doctrine of laissez faire economics—which in short promises that the wealthier that rich people get, the better it is for all of us—can continue to rule our lives.
The plan to blast Blair Mountain into rubble, part of the devastation that Big Coal has carried out in southern West Virginia, is intended to obliterate not only a peak but a physical reminder of the long fight for justice by workers and the poor. The Battle of Blair Mountain marked a moment when miners came close to breaking the stranglehold of the coal companies. It exposed the dark and murderous intentions of corporations. It made visible the insidious relationship between government and big business. It illustrated that until we rise up, until we begin to trust in our own strength, nothing will change.
All the gains, often paid for with the lives of working men and women, have now been reversed. We are back where we started. We must organize, resist and build movements. We must embrace radical politics and remain perpetually alienated from power or become a subjugated herd. I do not call for an emulation of this violence. But I do call for direct and sustained confrontation with all formal mechanisms of power, including the Democratic Party. The corporate state, for its part, should also remember the lesson from Blair Mountain. There are limits to how far a people can be pushed. And if violence continues to be the preferred mechanism for control, if the state refuses to institute rational economic and political reforms to address the growing misery that corporations inflict on the citizens, it will, as at Blair Mountain, engender a violent response.
__._,_.___
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"These miners knew the dynamics of capitalism and the role of government. They knew who their friends and enemies were. They knew that only by organizing and physically defying centers of power would they ever get justice. They did not trust authority. They did not wait for authority figures to dole out justice. They were not seduced by the empty rhetoric of politicians. They knew that if they wanted a better world they would have to be their own leaders. They would have to fight for it. And this is a lesson in the nature of corporate and governmental power that we have forgotten. We must make the powerful afraid of us if we are to get any semblance of an open and free society. They are not and never will be on our side."
The Battle of Blair Mountain
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/the_battle_of_blair_mountain_20120716/
Posted on Jul 16, 2012
By Chris Hedges
Joe Sacco and I, one afternoon when we were working in southern West Virginia on our book “Days of Destruction, Days of Revolt,” parked our car on the side of a road. We walked with Kenny King into the woods covering the slopes of Blair Mountain. King is leading an effort to halt companies from extracting coal by blasting apart the mountain, the site in the early 1920s of the largest armed insurrection in the United States since the Civil War.
Blair Mountain, amid today’s rising corporate exploitation and state repression, represents a piece of American history that corporate capitalists, and especially the coal companies, would have us forget. It is a reminder that citizens have a right to resist a corporate machine intent on subjugating them. It is a reminder that all the openings of our democracy were achieved with the toil, anguish and sometimes blood of radicals and popular fronts, from labor unions to anarchists, socialists and communists. But this is not approved history. We are instructed by the power elite to worship at approved shrines—plantation estates erected for wealthy slaveholders and land speculators such as George Washington, or the gilded domes of authority in the nation’s capital.
As we walked, King, a member of the Friends of Blair Mountain, an organization formed to have the site declared a national park, swept a metal detector over the soil. When it went off he knelt. He dug with a trowel until he unearthed a bullet casing, which he handed to me. I recognized it as a .30-30, the kind of ammunition my grandfather and I used when we hunted deer in Maine. Winchester lever-action rifles, which took the .30-30 round, were widely used by the rebellious miners.
In late August and early September 1921 in West Virginia’s Logan County as many as 15,000 armed miners, some of them allegedly provided with weapons by the United Mine Workers of America, mounted an insurrection after a series of assassinations of union leaders and their chief supporters, as well as mass evictions, blacklistings and wholesale firings by coal companies determined to break union organizing. Miners in other coal fields across the United States had concluded a strike that lasted two months and ended with a 27 percent pay increase. The miners in West Virginia and eastern Kentucky wanted the same. They wanted to be freed from the debt peonage of the company stores, to be paid fairly for their work, to have better safety in the mines, to fight back against the judges, politicians, journalists and civil authorities who had sold out to Big Coal, and to have a union. They grasped that unchallenged and unregulated corporate power was a form of enslavement. And they grasped that it was only through a union that they had any hope of winning.
Joe and I visited the grave of Sid Hatfield in a hilltop cemetery near the Tug River in Buskirk, Ky. The headstone, which is engraved with an image of Hatfield’s face, reads in part: “Defender of the rights of working people, gunned down by Felts detectives on the steps of the McDowell County Courthouse. . … His murder triggered the miners’ rebellion at the Battle of Blair Mountain.” Hatfield’s brief life is a microcosm of what can happen when one does not sell out to the powerful. The police chief of Matewan, W.Va., he turned down the coal companies’ offer of what was then the small fortune of $300 a month to turn against the miners. Law enforcement, with the exception of a few renegades such as Hatfield, was stripped, as is true now in corporate America, of any pretense of impartiality. Miners who wanted jobs had to sign “yaller dog” contracts promising they would not “affiliate with or assist or give aid to any labor organization,” under penalty of immediate loss of jobs and company housing. Baldwin-Felts spies, private security goons hired by the mine owners, informed on miners who talked of organizing. This led to dismissal, blacklisting, beating and sometimes death. The coal fields were dominated by company towns. Corporate power had seeped into every facet of existence. And resistance was costly.
“For more than twenty years, coal operators had controlled their very being; had arranged for their homes and towns, churches, schools, and recreation centers; had provided doctors and teachers and preachers; had employed many of their law officers; had even selected silent motion picture shows that were beginning to appear in theaters; had told them, finally, where and how they were to live and discharged those who did not conform,” Lon Savage wrote of the coal miners in his book “Thunder in the Mountains.” “In this context, the union’s organizing campaign gave the miners a new vision: not only better pay and working conditions but independence, power, freedom, justice, and prestige for people who felt they had lost them all.”
Denise Giardina, in her lyrical and moving novel of the mine wars, “Storming Heaven,” has union organizer Rondal Lloyd wonder what it is that finally makes a passive and cowed population rebel.
“Who can say why the miners were ready to listen to me?” he asks. “They broke their backs and died of roof falls and rib rolls and gas, their children went to bed hungry, and died of the typhoid, their wives took the consumption, they themselves coughed and spit up. True enough. They stayed in debt to the company store, they had no say at the mine or freedom of any kind, they could be let go at a moment’s notice and put out in the road, or beaten, or shot. All true. But it had always been that way, and they never fought back. Everything had always been the way it was, we were all pilgrims of sorrow, and only Jesus or the Virgin Mary could make it right. So why did they listen this time? Why did they decide that Jesus might not wait two thousand years for the kingdom to come, that Jesus might kick a little ass in the here and now?”
“Hell, it aint got nothing to do with Jesus,” the character Talcott tells him. “Half of em dont believe in Jesus. They just stood all they can stand, and they dont care for it.”
Sound familiar? It is an old and cruel tactic in any company town. Reduce wages and benefits to subsistence level. Break unions. Gut social assistance programs. Buy and sell elected officials and judges. Fill the airwaves with mindless diversion and corporate propaganda. Pay off the press. Poison the soil, the air and the water to extract natural resources and leave behind a devastated wasteland. Plunge workers into debt. Leave them owing more on their houses than the structures are worth. Make sure the children will be burdened by tens of thousands of dollars lent to them for an education and will be unable to find decent jobs. Make sure that everything from hospital bills to car payments to credit card fees exact increasing pounds of flesh. And when workers stumble, when they cannot pay soaring interest rates, jack up rates further and deploy predators from debt collection agencies to harass the debtors and seize their assets. Then toss them away. Company towns all look the same. And we live in the biggest one on earth.
The coal companies, to break a strike in the spring of 1920, sent in squads of Baldwin-Felts detectives, nicknamed “gun thugs” by the miners, to evict miners and their families from company housing. Soon hundreds of families were living in squalid, muddy tent encampments. During an eviction on May 19 of about a dozen miners and their families—in which, as today, possessions were carted out and dumped into the street—Hatfield ordered the arrest of the company goons. He confronted the “gun thugs” at the train station at Matewan after the evictions. Shooting broke out. When it was over, seven Baldwin-Felts detectives, including Albert and Lee Felts, were dead. Another detective was wounded. Two miners were killed. Matewan’s mayor, Cabell Testerman, was mortally wounded. The gun battle emboldened the miners. By July there was almost no coal coming out of the mines.
“It is freedom or death, and your children will be free,” Mother Jones told the miners. “We are not going to leave a slave class to the coming generation, and I want to say to you the next generation will not charge us for what we have done; they will charge and condemn us for what we have left undone.”
Hatfield was acquitted of murder charges in January 1921. The decision infuriated the mine owners. And Hatfield became a marked man. After his acquittal of murder, coal bosses had him charged with dynamiting a coal tipple. When Hatfield and his young wife, as well as a friend, Ed Chambers, and Chambers’ wife, walked up the courthouse steps in Welch, W.Va., for the new trial, the two men were assassinated by Baldwin-Felts agents standing at the top. The assassinations set off the insurrection and triggered the Blair Mountain rebellion. The coal owners hastily organized militias and recruited units of heavily armed law enforcement officers. They hired private airplanes to drop homemade explosives on miners encamped on the mountain. Billy Mitchell, one of the early advocates of air power, volunteered the Army’s 88th Squadron to carry out aerial surveillance for the coal companies.
The armed miners, many of them veterans of World War I, fought militias and police, who were equipped with heavy machine guns, for five days. The militias and police held back advancing miners from a trench system that is still visible on a ridge top. The Army was finally ordered into the coal fields in early September 1921 to quell the rebellion. The miners surrendered. By the time the battle ended, at least 30 of those defending the mine owners had been killed along with perhaps as many as 100 rebel miners. West Virginia indicted 1,217 miners in the rebellion, charging some with murder and treason. There were acquittals, but many miners spent several years in prison. The union was effectively broken. In 1920 there had been about 50,000 United Mine Workers members in West Virginia, and by 1929 there were only 600. The union did not reconstitute itself until 1935, after the Roosevelt administration legalized union organizing.
These miners knew the dynamics of capitalism and the role of government. They knew who their friends and enemies were. They knew that only by organizing and physically defying centers of power would they ever get justice. They did not trust authority. They did not wait for authority figures to dole out justice. They were not seduced by the empty rhetoric of politicians. They knew that if they wanted a better world they would have to be their own leaders. They would have to fight for it. And this is a lesson in the nature of corporate and governmental power that we have forgotten. We must make the powerful afraid of us if we are to get any semblance of an open and free society. They are not and never will be on our side.
“The hatreds instilled in the union miners for their bosses and erstwhile friends were a new twisting and darkening influence in the whole society of the plateau,” wrote Harry M. Caudill in “Night Comes to the Cumberlands.” “For a whole generation of workingmen such abhorrence became second nature and was directed indiscriminately at any thing or idea originating within the offices of company officials. In later years, after the Second World War, the larger companies sent a new generation of youthful executives into the region for the purpose of ameliorating this deeply rooted animosity, but even their Rotary-learned jocularity and genial expansiveness could not soften the bias of men whose aversion had become hardcrusted in the heat of bitter union drives.”
The coal companies have erased this piece of history from school textbooks. It is too inconvenient. It exposes predatory capitalism’s ruthless commodification and exploitation of human beings and the natural world. It exposes the drive by corporations to keep us impoverished, disempowered and unorganized. If corporate forces can sanitize history, if they can ensure historical amnesia, then the doctrine of laissez faire economics—which in short promises that the wealthier that rich people get, the better it is for all of us—can continue to rule our lives.
The plan to blast Blair Mountain into rubble, part of the devastation that Big Coal has carried out in southern West Virginia, is intended to obliterate not only a peak but a physical reminder of the long fight for justice by workers and the poor. The Battle of Blair Mountain marked a moment when miners came close to breaking the stranglehold of the coal companies. It exposed the dark and murderous intentions of corporations. It made visible the insidious relationship between government and big business. It illustrated that until we rise up, until we begin to trust in our own strength, nothing will change.
All the gains, often paid for with the lives of working men and women, have now been reversed. We are back where we started. We must organize, resist and build movements. We must embrace radical politics and remain perpetually alienated from power or become a subjugated herd. I do not call for an emulation of this violence. But I do call for direct and sustained confrontation with all formal mechanisms of power, including the Democratic Party. The corporate state, for its part, should also remember the lesson from Blair Mountain. There are limits to how far a people can be pushed. And if violence continues to be the preferred mechanism for control, if the state refuses to institute rational economic and political reforms to address the growing misery that corporations inflict on the citizens, it will, as at Blair Mountain, engender a violent response.
__._,_.___
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