Another Good Reminder That Were Part Of A Long Struggle. And I Know Who Woody Guthrie Is - Had Never

another good reminder that we’re part of a long struggle. and I know who Woody Guthrie is - had never heard of Fred Trump before this year. our heroes shine brighter and longer

I suppose Old Man Trump knows Just how much Racial Hate he stirred up In the bloodpot of human hearts When he drawed That color line Here at his Eighteen hundred family project

– Woody Guthrie (!), December 1950…

…writing about the owner of the building he was living in – Fred Trump

It is necessary to understand that the police army at Standing Rock wants to start killing the water protectors. You don’t deliberately inflict hypothermia on people, especially older people, unless you are cognizant of the fact that this can be lethal. Their use of water cannons in this context is lethal force. I imagine they’re delighted at the opportunity; they’ve only held off on live ammunition this long because massacres are bad PR. 

(Oh, and a quick sidenote: “rubber” bullets are not made of rubber. They are metal pellets with a thin rubber coating. You can absolutely kill or severely injure someone with a rubber bullet.)

Let America Be America Again

I was just sent this poem from an acquaintance. It seems particularly important at this moment in time. It was written by one of our great treasures the African American Poet Langston Hughes.

Let America Be America Again

Langston Hughes, 1902 - 1967

Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean— Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That’s made America the land it has become. O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home— For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore, And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we’ve dreamed And all the songs we’ve sung And all the hopes we’ve held And all the flags we’ve hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay— Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again— The land that never has been yet— And yet must be—the land where every man is free. The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME— Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose— The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives, We must take back our land again, America!

O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain— All, all the stretch of these great green states— And make America again! From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes. Used with permission.

The SPLC has released a wonderful guide to speaking up about bigotry.

The responses are direct, gentle, and very good.  It has sections for family, friends, coworkers, and self.

Please read it, please spread the link, please keep this link around as reference.  Everyone needs to see this.  It is very important that we arm ourselves that we may be better able to address the casual hateful speech many of us are likely to encounter.

One of the most effective tools at our disposal is protecting the area around us, and making sure that things like this said within earshot of us will not go unchallenged.

Do what you can, but also stay safe.

Perfect. I nominate @copperbadge to inherit this task. 

(Any longer version in the works?) 

Yet another reason I’m sad Terry Pratchett is dead is because I just know that the Discworld novel he would have written in response to recent developments in Britain and the world would be fucking scathing.

No. Resist this narrative that we shouldn’t sit with grief and other emotions if we want to make a change. Resist this narrative. Mourning is part of organizing, if we want to do it in a way that doesn’t leave us burned out or suicidal. Listening to what our bodies tell us about our needs for rest and renewal, loving and taking care of ourselves and each other, allowing ourselves to collectively experience the weight of things that happen…that’s building radical community and future too.