Percy Bysshe Shelley: Still Not the Best Shelley, But Not Half Bad Either

Hey there, comrades. This post differs from ones I've made in the past in a number of ways. Firstly, it's about an artist rather than an activist. Secondly, it's about a dead white man, a category of human I had thus far avoided, as I find them to be rather over-represented in discussions about history. But I wanted to do a couple things. Firstly, I wanted to show the roots of radicalism that run, frequently forgotten, through what might be considered the canon of English literature. Secondly, I wanted to remind people that it's not just members of oppressed groups who have the obligation to fight oppression. Thirdly, I wanted to get my former-English-major on and talk about some poetry that I really like. So, without further delay, let's talk Shelley.
Most people nowadays know Percy Bysshe Shelley primarily as the husband of the woman who wrote Frankenstein. Many people also know him as the guy who wrote a lot of Romantic poetry, and hung out with Byron. These things are true, but I'd like to remind us all that he also had a revolutionary streak a mile wide. (England was still using the Imperial measures at that time. Otherwise it would have been a 1.6 kilometer-wide revolutionary streak, and let's face it, that just doesn't sound fun.)

Born in 1792 to a white, Protestant, extremely upper class English family, Percy was definitely a child of privilege. You could be forgiven for assuming his life was awesome, and maybe it would have been, except for the fact that upper class English people of the 19th century were kind of fucking psychotic. When Percy went off to school, he got his ass kicked. A lot. I mean, one would expect a child named "Percy" to get his ass kicked, but one would not expect his classmates to organize daily "Shelley-baits" (you know, like bear-baits, except young Percy Bysshe Shelley was a budding Romantic poet, not a bear, which some would argue put him at a disadvantage), where they would surround him and attack him, because they thought the way he screamed sounded funny. Yeah, they kind of treated each other the way they treated the rest of the world, the English upper classes.

It didn't take long for young Percy to start stirring up trouble. When he was 19, and a student at Oxford, he published a pamphlet called The Necessity of Atheism. I will not claim that it reads like a radical text right off the bat; the first sentence is:

"A close examination of the validity of the proofs adduced to support any proposition, has ever been allowed to be the only sure way of attaining truth, upon the advantages of which it is unnecessary to descant, our knowledge of the existence of a Deity is a subject of such importance, that it cannot be too minutely investigated; in consequence of this conviction, we proceed briefly and impartially to examine the proofs which have been adduced."

Yeah, as openings go, it's not exactly "A specter is haunting Europe," but the point isn't the prose (and the prose gets a lot better as you keep going) but the argument Shelley was making. He argues for rationality, relying on the evidence of the senses, and concludes with "Every reflecting mind must allow there is no proof for the existence of a Deity." And then a smug little "Q.E.D." like a good Oxford student. True fact: England was, and is, the world's leading exporter of pompous, and the nation owes it all to people like 19 year old Percy Shelley and the rest of the Oxbridge crowd.

This pamphlet would not be a big deal, nowadays. Mostly because people would get bored and stop reading several words into the first sentence. In 1811, it got Percy and the friend he wrote it with expelled from Oxford. His father got in touch with the school, (remember, English aristocrats have some pull in situations like this. Or, you know, any situations.) and got them to agree to let him back in, as long as he would recant his atheism.

Don't think for a second Shelley would have made it onto this blog if he hadn't told the school, and his father, to fuck off. Being essentially a 19th century disaffected teenager, Percy was all "whatever," and ran off to Scotland with a 16 year old schoolgirl. His relationship with his father became rather strained after that.

Percy and his new wife hung out for a while (we're not really going to talk about her, because as those of you who know the Romantics know, she wasn't the cooler of his wives) in the Lake District, where Percy was trying to write poetry. For most of the early 19th century you couldn't throw a rock in the Lake District without hitting a poet enraptured in the Romantic sublime, but somehow it wasn't working for Percy, because he kept thinking about Ireland. Not about the rolling green hills and beauty of nature either, but about the ridiculous amounts of oppression Britain was getting up to there. Ireland had been officially made a part of Britain just twelve years before, by the Act of Union, and Catholic Emancipation, which was supposed to have happened, hadn't. That was no small thing; it basically meant that it was considered impossible to be both a loyal British citizen and a Catholic, and since Ireland was now a part of Britain, that meant that a whole bunch of Irish people who had just been minding their own business, were now essentially at least semi-treasonous by default, and were being treated as such. Rebellions were flaring up from time to time, but were being suppressed, and anyone who didn't care for Britain was being shipped off to penal colonies in Australia. Many people didn't care for Britain, but NO ONE cared for Australia. (Except the people who were already there before the British showed up, but the British were doing what they could to make Australia suck even worse for them than it did for the folks in the penal colonies. And Britain was pretty good at making places suck.)

Percy did what any dreamy poet would do; he headed to Ireland, wrote a few articles and pamphlets calling for Irish independence, and fell in with a seriously revolutionary crowd, attending nationalist rallies, and attracting the attention of the British government, who decided that they'd better keep an eye on him. He was writing political treatises at this point, not poetry, works with titles like "A Declaration of Rights," and getting seriously pissed off at what he called "fireside revolutionaries," what we would today probably call "slacktivists." A friend warned him "Shelley, you are preparing a scene of blood!" When someone says something like that, you can pretty much figure that the person they're saying it to is a long way away from sitting around the Lake District, writing about how nature makes them feel. (Note: I absolutely support sitting around the Lake District, writing about how nature makes you feel. I also support writing revolutionary pamphlets.)

Did I mention that as he was calling for insurrection, Percy was also calling for nonviolence? It didn't end up coming to much, and Percy left Ireland disappointed, but remember that idea of nonviolence, because damn was he ahead of his time there. We'll get back to that. For now, let's cover the fact that Percy, like a tool, left his wife, but, like an awesome person, married the daughter of prominent women's rights advocate, (and possible future blog entry) Mary Wollstonecraft. You know that lady as Mary Shelley, inventor of the Romantic gothic horror genre, and writer of the best gothic novel in existence. (You other former English majors wanna fight me on that? Bring it. Castle of Otranto is a terrible book. Yeah, I said it. Frankenstein all the way.)

Percy kept on writing, both poetry and politics. He wrote a couple of revolutionary tracts, under the pseudonym "The Hermit of Marlow." In case you missed that reference, Marlow (guy who wrote around the same time as Shakespeare) was a famous English atheist. These tracts were pretty damn critical of the concept of monarchy. One of them "An Address to the People on the Occasion of the Death of Princess Charlotte" is particularly interesting. You'd expect a pamphlet written on the occasion of a royal's death to sort of dance around the whole idea that monarchy is bullshit, but this tract basically consists of Percy going "seriously? Monarchy? That's a thing we have?" and saying that what the people should be mourning is not the death of one member of the royal family, but the existence of the aristocracy, period. It's worth noting that Percy's most famous work, an apparently apolitical poem called Ozymandias is also rather critical of the concept of power, authority, royalty, and wealth. You can read it as a poem about the ravages of time, but viewed in the context of Percy's politics, doesn't it kind of read as a "yeah, you THINK you're in charge of this country. Wait until you're just a pile of sad-ass stones in the desert, you authoritarian bastard." I think it does.

After that, Percy spent quite a bit of time traveling, and having babies that died. There was other family drama as well - the wife he left for Mary killed herself, and left a note blaming him for her death, which was as tragic as it was probably accurate - and he was hanging out with the ridiculous, sexy, and ridiculously sexy Lord Byron. His radicalism even shocked Byron, and shocking Byron was not an easy task; this was the guy who had to leave Britain because he had, essentially, shocked England so hard the country couldn't deal with him anymore. Once, when the two were checking into a hotel, Percy signed the register with his name, and then the words "democrat, great lover of mankind, and atheist," in Greek. Byron thought this was a bit risky of him, and crossed it out. Byron did. When Byron, the man for whom the phrase "mad, bad, and dangerous to know" was invented thinks you need to be a little more careful and discreet, you are living life on the edge. And yes for a British poet, living life on the edge apparently involves things like making bold declarations in Greek in hotel guest registry books.

It was around this time that Percy wrote two political poems, the ones that made me decide he need an article written about him for this blog. These poems were called The Men of England and The Masque of Anarchy. Men of England is a call for the working class to rise up against the people who exploited them. (People, it must be said, like Percy's family and friends...) Here's a bit of the poem (the "you" in the text is the English working class)

"The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears.

Sow seed -- but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, -- let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, -- let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear."

Call me crazy, but that sounds like a call for the workers to seize the means of production. In 1819. Let's be clear, here. While Percy was calling for the workers of England to seize the means of production, Karl Marx was pooping in diapers and trying really hard to figure out walking. Yes, that means he also had yet to grow the magnificent beard. Percy was ahead of his time on this one.

But Percy's pre-figuring of future ideas goes even more awesome. The Masque of Anarchy (he was using the word "anarchy" not in its political sense, but in the other sense of "holy shit, chaos and death," but we can forgive him for that). This poem is, in my opinion, by far his greatest political work, and it was written in response to the Peterloo Massacre, which, as the name would kind of suggest, if you squint, occurred at a place called St. Peter's Field (the "Peterloo" thing was an ironic name, intended to invoke the Battle of Waterloo, which had happened a few years before), where 15 peaceful protestors, calling for reform of the parliamentary system, were killed, and hundreds injured, after cavalry charged into a huge crowd and commenced with the stabbing. Percy, like many people, was displeased by this, and he wrote a Not Subtle poem in response, which not only criticized and demonized many prominent politicians, but also articulated, for basically the first time ever, the idea of non-violent resistance.

Now, you may be wondering just how Not Subtle this poem is. It's an allegorical poem, and you would not believe how unsubtle you can get with an allegorical poem. Sample text:

"I met murder on the way-
He had a mask like Castlereagh-
Very smooth he looked, yet grim
Seven blood hounds followed him.

All were fat, and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew."

Castlereagh, the guy who the allegorical representation of freaking murder is wearing a mask of? He was a British politician who helped suppress the last great Irish rebellion in 1798, and who was hugely important in getting the Act of Union (which made Ireland a part of Britain, remember?) passed in the first place. So, that's about how subtle Percy is throughout this poem with politicians he doesn't care for. They're generally symbolizing murder, and feeding human hearts to dogs. There is a LOT of that kind of stuff at the beginning of the poem.

That's not what's cool about this poem, though. What's cool is what Percy calls on the people of England to do about all this oppression and hearts-being-fed-to-dogs business. Get ready for this, because this is awesome. First, he imagines a scene like in St. Peter's Field. It starts with a gathering of determined people.

"Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made you, free."

He imagines violent opposition:

"Let the horseman's scimitars,
Wheel and flash like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
in a sea of death and mourning."

The protestors, though, do not fight back.

"Stand ye calm, and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war."

Lastly, he imagines the aftermath of the ensuing massacre.

"Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak
In hot blushes on their cheek.

Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street.

And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company"

It's an idea we're quite familiar with in this day and age; nonviolent resistance is met by violent resistance, and the side that uses violence is shamed and shown to be in the wrong by their use of violent oppression to silence opposition. This is the first time in European history that the idea of nonviolent resistance had been articulated. Not only was Percy taking away the real lesson of the Peterloo Massacre, he was also prefiguring the way that nonviolence would be used by people like Ghandi and Martin Luther King. Which is, when you think about it, kind of amazing.

The last stanza of the poem is so damn good, I'm going to let it end the article. So before we get there, I'll finish up with Percy's story. At age 30, he and friends were working to put together a newspaper that would be called The Liberal, which would disseminate controversial, radical political writings. This never happened, as Percy and the man he was setting up the newspaper with died that year, sailing on Shelley's yacht. (I can't believe this blog is featuring a man who owned a yacht.) And then his wife spent the rest of her life carrying around his heart; did I mention she wrote amazing gothic fiction? Some people think Percy's death was suicide, and some think it was politically motivated murder. Or it could have been because he was sailing the boat himself, and he wasn't very good at it. Either way, the world lost a great poet, and a great political writer, and he died just as he was about to begin what had the potential to be his greatest political work. It's possible that, had he lived, we'd know him today, not as a poet, or as the husband of Mary Shelley, but as the author and distributor of great revolutionary texts. We'll never know. I'll let these lines of Masque of Anarchy sum up the greatness that was Percy Bysshe Shelly. (and seriously, read the whole poem.)


"Men of England, heirs of glory
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one might mother,
Hopes of her, and one another,

Rise, like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number-
Shake your chains to Earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you-
Ye are many-they are few."



Causes: Irish Independence, Catholic Emancipation, atheism, social justice, vegetarianism
Specific Lessons For Modern Activists: Being a member of a privileged group does not mean you can't, shouldn't, or don't have an obligation to fight oppression. And if you're on the brink of a great political undertaking, do try not to drown.

The Oberlin-Wellington Rescue Was Easily the Coolest Thing Ever to Happen in Ohio

(A personal note: I meant to have this article ready during Black History Month. I'm afraid Life intervened, a couple of times. I'm therefore declaring it to be Black History Year. Or possibly Black History Forever.)

Sorry about the title. I don't mean to hate on Ohio, but seriously, when was the last time you heard about something cool happening in Ohio? Well, the reason you can't think of anything is that the last awesome thing to happen in that state took place in 1858. It features a daring international siege/heist-style rescue and dramatic court case complete with courtroom speeches to make Atticus Finch and that guy from Inherit the Wind weep. Oh, and two of the guys involved were pretty much the coolest ever. Let me tell you about them first, and then we'll get to the Amazing Ohio Drama in which they both participated.

The Langston brothers were two of the most fucking bad-ass 19th century black men ever. It's hard to say who was cooler; between Charles Henry and John Mercer Langston there was so much concentrated awesome that in the early 20th century, something unbelievable happened. Someone named a golf course after one of them. There is a goddamn golf course that was named after John in 1939. It's like these two black men kicked racism in the teeth so hard that they had to find the single whitest thing possible to name after them, just to get across how much they fucked up racism. They kicked racism in the teeth so hard that racism was shitting toenails for weeks. And one of the coolest things these two guys ever did was get involved in the Oberlin-Wellington Rescue which, you'll recall, is the topic of this article.

I will now get back to the main topic of the article.

This story starts with a guy named John Price. He was a slave from Kentucky, and in 1856, he became a fugitive slave. He made it to the non-slave state of Ohio. Unfortunately for him, America had a law just for people like him, called the Fugitive Slave Act, which basically stated "oh cool, you made it from a slave state to a free state. Well done, fugitive. But your owner still totally owns you, and all marshals and other government officials are legally obligated to help return you to him or her. Sucks to be you. Should've thought of that before you were born a slave."

It was under that law that poor John Price was arrested in Ohio in 1858, after a couple years of living and working quietly as a free man when a couple of cockwagons, professional slave-catchers (people who made money by capitalizing on the Fugitive Slave laws by kidnapping free black people, sometimes former slaves, sometimes just random people they decided should be future slaves, and returning them to their "masters," in the south. You know, even if they'd never been slaves before. They were really not good people.) decided to kidnap him, with the help of the legally-obliged-to-help federal marshal.

This happened in a town called Oberlin, which was a little complicated for the federal marshal who arrested John Price, not because his arrest was, you know, wrong and bullshit, but because Oberlin was not exactly a pro-slavery town. Obviously, or an escaped slave like John Price probably wouldn't have decided it was a good place to settle down, get a job, and live. It was actually pretty much an abolitionist town, was active on the Underground Railroad, and featured a college full of students who were also radically anti-slavery, and you know what college students are like. I mean, today they'd probably have circulated a petition on facebook, but there was a time when college students were fairly radical and prone to getting political and revolutionary action going. In fact, they, along with the townspeople, had formed the Oberlin Anti-Slavery Society back in 1835 (probably not the same college students as were involved in 1858, unless they were like, really, really terrible at learning stuff), which by the time John Price got into hot water was being headed by none other than our two heroes, the Langston brothers. This was a fairly radical group by 1858 standards; it wasn't just for emancipation, it was for "the immediate emancipation of the whole colored race within the United States: the emancipation of the slave from the oppression of the master, the emancipation of the free colored men from the oppression of public sentiment, and the elevation of both to an intellectual, moral and political equality with the whites." So, what are people who favor all that to do when a black man is arrested, right in their own town, for the crime of escaping from slavery? Get fucking pissed off, that's what. And do something about it.

So, with the risk of angry townspeople and college students taking action to free John Price and then presumably free him from the oppression of public sentiment and elevate him to an intellectual, moral, and political equality with the whites, the marshal decided it was a good idea to take him out of town before shit went down, and took him to a town called Wellington. Here's the thing, though. Those anti-slavery activists from Oberlin? Yeah, they too possessed the technology necessary to go to Wellington, which, according to a map of Ohio I happen to have in my possession, is basically right the Hell next to Oberlin. Like, they're in the same county. Counties are small. It was like, less than ten miles. As far as fleeing goes, this was a pretty half-assed effort, gotta say. John Price had made way, way more effort to get to freedom than this marshal was apparently willing to go to to keep him from it. I guess that's what a sports commentator might call "just wanting it more." Anyway, the marshal's plan was to get John Price and the slave catchers onto a southbound train, whereupon they would no longer be his problem.

That's when what history has deemed a "mob" showed up in Wellington. Well...I guess they were kinda mob-like. There were thirty seven people (including the Langston brothers), and they were armed and angry so I guess there were certain mobbish qualities, but they were an awesome mob, so I think we can let that go. Mobs are sometimes on the right side. Moreover, by 19th century standards, they were far from a typical armed mob: firstly, they were about two thirds white and one third black. Angry armed mobs in the mid 19th century were rarely racially integrated. Secondly, as counterintuitive as it might sound, this was a mob of pacifists. What, you might ask, were pacifists doing in a mob anyway? Carrying weapons, no less? And that would be a pretty damn good question.

The answer was that these guys were willing to do whatever it took to save John Price. Not only were they against slavery, but a member of their own community had just been taken. One mob-member shouted out "they have carried away one of our own men in broad daylight!" suggesting just how much the town took this personally. One woman lent a man who was on his way to Wellington her horse, and told him that she didn't mind if he ended up getting the horse killed, so long as he brought back the captive safely. That's a big deal; imagine lending someone your car and being like "hey, it's cool if you total it, just do what you gotta do." I'm not saying it was unwarranted; a person's life matters more than a horse's, but it's still a pretty good sign that the people of Oberlin were committed to saving this guy. These people were not fucking around, and it's hardly surprising that even pacifists were willing to make a bit of a threat.

When they got to Wellington, the mob surrounded the hotel where John Price was being held. Some people were calling out that it was illegal for the slavecatchers to take him. Others were calling out that they didn't really give a flying fuck what the law was, but they weren't leaving without him. Charles Langston (remember him and his brother? They're the awesome guys.) moved through the crowd, keeping the armed dudes calm, while people negotiated with John Price's captors. Unfortunately, a southbound train was pulling into the station, which, since the kidnappers were going to get on it with their captive, kind of added some tension to the whole deal.

The negotiators switched straight into rescue mode. It's unclear exactly what went down...the Oberlin Evangelist, a newspaper with obvious abolitionist sympathies, claims that "at last the doors themselves gave way before the moral force that was brought to bear upon them, and the poor fugitive walked forth to the crowd who bore him off in triumph. Not a shot was fired, nor a blow struck, nor a bolt broken." So...the crowd broke Price out of the hotel by being right. Yeah, that sounds...uh, metaphorical. The trial transcript suggests that a window was broken and a dude was punched in the face, which sounds a lot more literal, not to mention, you know, effective. Another account mentions a ladder being used, since Price was being kept in the attic. By the way, I usually try and keep an informal tone with these articles, and call folks I like by their first names, but when I was reading the trial transcript they kept calling John Price "John" in a clear attempt to be condescending and they were also dropping the n-word like it was going out of style so I'm going to be calling him Price just to spite them. Anyway.

Oh, something else the bad guys (what, I don't have to use legal terms like "prosecution" here do I? The BAD GUYS) in the trial transcripts imply is that Price was totally down with the whole returning to slavery thing. Apparently he wanted to go back to Kentucky and had no desire to get rescued by this annoying multi-racial mob. Hint: that was not the case.

Price was rescued, without anyone getting shot, which was cool, and taken back to Oberlin, where he hid out at the home of the College President for a while, because seriously, the pillars of the Oberlin community were all down with this rescue. He was eventually spirited away to Canada. Hooray! The good guys win, and it's all good, right?

Obviously no. It was the nineteenth fucking century. Thirty-seven of the rescuers, including Charles Langston, were arrested and indited by a grand jury. In response the state of Ohio went ahead and arrested the marshal and his team, because apparently states can have a wicked sense of humor sometimes.

Here's Charles Henry Langston, by the way

I don't care how racist and pro-slavery you are, how do arrest a man who owns that hat? He's clearly better than you.

And while we're at it, here's his brother, John Mercer

As with many 19th century gentlemen, his beard is like a whole other person in this picture. I think he may have loaned it to Lincoln later in life, but I have no proof of that.

Ultimately, only two guys were put on trial; Charles, and some white guy named Bushnell. Bushnell was convicted, and then the court called back the SAME (all white) jury to try Charles. Does that sound sketchy as fuck to you? Because it sounds sketchy as fuck to me. Firstly, they were all white. Secondly, those (white) dudes on the jury had already served their jury duty for whatever length of time, and I feel like they probably had better shit to do than come back for another trial. No one likes jury duty, and having to do it twice in a row sounds like some serious 8th Amendment violating shit to me. Thirdly, they were all fucking white. Fourthly, and most importantly, how the FUCK is a jury that has already convicted a dude supposed to be impartial when trying the guy accused of the same crime? Also, I may not have mentioned this before, but they were all white.

Anyway, against all odds, an all white jury that had already convicted one guy of helping to rescue a black man from slavery somehow managed to also convict a black man accused of the same thing, and Charles was found guilty. After he was convicted, the judge asked him if there was anything he'd like to say before he was sentenced. And thus the entire world got several degrees more awesome.

To start with, he said he wasn't expecting the judge to go easy on him. "I know that the courts of this country, that the laws of this country, that the governmental machinery of this country, are so constituted as to oppress and outrage colored men, men of my complexion. I cannot, then, of course, expect, judging from the past history of the country, any mercy from the laws, from the constitution, or from the courts of the country."

Sorry, let me translate that into not-nineteenth-century-smart-person talk. "You're all a bunch of racists who work for racists to enforce racists laws written by racists. I'm not optimistic about this whole thing."

Charles went on to talk about the events for which he was being put on trial, and was not shy about owning up to his part in the action. He said : "Being identified with that man, by color, by race, by manhood, by sympathies, such as God has implanted in us all, I felt it my duty to do and do what I could toward liberating him."

Then he got to the "why this whole trial was bullshit" part of his address and pointed out that he was supposed to get a "jury of his peers," and instead had been given a jury made up of racist white people. He pointed out that all white people in America hold racist feelings toward black people including the attorney who defended him. He made a point of saying that the attorney defended him "ably" but was prejudiced nevertheless. The fact that the entire courtroom did not just bow down at the Truths that were coming out of this man's mouth is remarkable. Seriously, can you picture this scene? An old fashioned court room, with one man explaining the concept of Justice to everyone? It feels cinematic as fuck to me. Someone should film that shit; everyone loves a courtroom drama, and this one has the advantage of being true.

So, after admitting to the crime and calling everyone in the court racists, what more could Charles do to really endear himself to the judge? Well, this calls for a full paragraph quote.

"And now I thank you for this leniency, this indulgence, in giving a man unjustly condemned, by a tribunal before which he is declare to have no rights, the privilege of speaking in his own behalf. I know that it will do nothing toward mitigating your sentence, but it is a privilege to be allowed to speak, and I thank you for it. I shall submit to the penalty, be it what it may. But I stand up here to say, that if for doing what I did on that day at Wellington, I am to go to jail six months, and pay a fine of a thousand dollars, according to the Fugitive Slave Law, and such is the protection the laws of this country afford me, I must take upon my self the responsibility of self-protection; and when I come to be claimed by some perjured wretch as his slave, I shall never be taken into slavery. And as in that trying hour I would have others do to me, as I would call upon my friends to help me; as I would call upon you, your Honor, to help me; as I would call upon you [to the District-Attorney], to help me; and upon you [to Judge Bliss], and upon you [to his counsel], so help me GOD! I stand here to say that I will do all I can, for any man thus seized and help, though the inevitable penalty of six months imprisonment and one thousand dollars fine for each offense hangs over me! We have a common humanity. You would do so; your manhood would require it; and no matter what the laws might me, you would honor yourself for doing it; your friends would honor you for doing it; your children to all generations would honor you for doing it; and every good and honest man would say, you had done right! [Great and prolonged applause, in spite of the efforts of the Court and the Marshal.]"

Seriously Hollywood, anyone who even THINKS about playing Charles Langston is going to get an Oscar. (The full text of his address is here).

The judge sentenced him to twenty days in jail and ordered him to pay a hundred dollar fine.

An appeal failed, as did a rally of ten thousand people in Cleavland, at which John Langston was somehow the only black speaker. Well, I say it failed; it failed to keep Charles and Bushnell out of jail, but it certainly succeeded in making the Chief Justice who refused the appeal look like an ass; he failed to get re-elected the next year. And it also succeeded at drawing national attention to the obvious bullshit that was the Fugitive Slave Law. A couple of the black rescuers would go on to participate in John Brown's Raid on Harper's Ferry, be captured along with him, and hanged soon after. These abolitionists were willing to put their bodies on the line because they already were; as Charles repeatedly makes clear in his speech, as long as slavery and the Fugitive Slave act existed, no black person could ever be safe from slavery.

And as for the Langston brothers? John would go on to be the first dean of Howard University Law School. They were both involved in politics, with John serving in the U.S. Congress starting in 1888 (first black person to be a congressperson from Virginia, and the last one for almost a hundred years) as well as acting as the US Ambassador to Haiti. Charles moved to Kansas early in the Civil War, and opened a school for escaped slaves. He would later go on to become president of what would become Western University, and married the widow of one of those men who was hanged after John Brown's Raid on Harper's Ferry. Oh, and their grandson was Langston Hughes.

And that's the tale of the most interesting thing ever to happen in Ohio. Not bad, Ohio. Not fucking bad.

(Sorry Ohio. I really don't mean to call you boring. I'm sure lots of cool things have happened within your borders; forgive my hyperbole. It's something I do.)

A Collection of Works by Catastrophone Orchestra (a book review)

A Collection of Works by Catastrophone Orchestra is a volume of short stories and vignettes, some connected along a central narrative, others simply loosely linked by geography. Each story is set in a slightly sci-fi version of late 19th, early 20th century New York City that will be described as "dystopian" by people who have never read Jacob Riis, and is populated by anarchists, communists, activists, revolutionaries, paupers, magicians, artists, scientists, doctors, and madmen.

The characters, world, and writing are all solid, and make for a very enjoyable read, but for me personally this was also the right book at the right time. I'm not just talking about my burning desire for steampunk works that incorporate and engage with politics, although that's certainly part of it. I think in order for people to really get this review I'm going to have to tell you when I read this book.

I started it very, very late one Sunday night, after spending part of Saturday, and almost all of Sunday, in police custody, following my third Occupy Wall Street arrest. My stay included 9 hours in the Central Booking holding cells known, since the 1830s, as "The Tombs." I got out right before the night court closed down, and made my way home.

I don't know how many of you have ever been in a similar situation, but I was feeling, as I find I usually do in those moments, a boiling sense of political radicalism that I was too tired, hungry, and angry to actually direct anywhere. It's a lot like being seventeen, really; you want to find the physical embodiment of oppression and set it on fire, and there's just not a lot to do with that feeling until you've showered, eaten, slept, and regained your ability to have and express coherent political thoughts.

It was while I was in that state that I got home and started reading this book. I don't think a more perfect collection of words could have come to my hand. It took me into a world that was alien and archaic, yet harshly, viscerally familiar and recognizable. The characters are all vividly drawn, maybe a little overstated in a Dickensian kind of way, and placed in an equally vivid, immersive world of New York City slums. For the most interesting characters, which is the majority of the ones we meet, their convictions are what drives them. We have the central characters, who run on a heady combination of anarchism, madness, and opiates, and who run a free medical clinic in the Lower East Side even as they work on a project that combines music and terrorism; we accompany an unemployed working class communist to a May Day rally that becomes a riot; and we take a journey through the city with an animal rights activist whose only question is where he can most effectively deploy the bomb he's built in order to aid the cause of animal welfare.

In my above-mentioned mental state, this was exactly what I needed; so many of these characters are aflame with some revolutionary ideal, and on their way to doing something about it. I eagerly and fiercely identified with them. One story even featured the Tombs and the Manhattan Central Booking Night Court. I'm not saying you have to have just got out of jail to appreciate this book, of course. Just that if you think you may be going to jail for political reasons, try and have this book waiting when you get out, because that's one of the many occasions on which you will enjoy reading it.

The world in which these stories take place is not terribly different from the one that historically existed; there are some minor technological changes, but other than that the most noticeable anomaly is the existence, in this reality, of steampunks. Steampunks are depicted here as 19th century anarchist punks; young people with dyed hair, piercings and tattoos. I loved this concept, and the glimpses we saw of how the steampunks interact with a May Day rally, as well as the police, are fascinating and feel very true to life. I not only believed in the steampunks as a 19th century subculture, I really wanted to hang out with them, at least for a while, even if I'd probably head back to hear Johann Most speak at the rally eventually.

I know the Catastrophone Orchestra wants to see steampunk become a politically conscious subculture, and I think that works like this are the perfect way to go about it. To be honest, I found the manifesto outlining that idea at the beginning of this volume to be by far the least interesting part. The stories speak effectively for themselves, and simply by existing they argue persuasively for a steampunk that involves historical, present, and fantastical politics.

I hear a lot about steampunk as "escapism," and I find that idea intensely problematic. This book is a journey without being an escape; it transfers the concerns and issues of the real world, both modern and historical, into a universe in which those issues look different, but feel profoundly the same. It doesn't make you forget real problems, it lets you view them through the greasy, steamed lens of a different, fascinating world.

Mostly, this is a work that's made up of details. Since it's a series of short stories and vignettes, rather than a novel, the truly wonderful things about it are mainly small moments that work particularly well; my favorite is the introduction of a formerly politically active steelworker who now wears a mohawk, picks fights with cops, and calls himself Neal Lisst. (Say it out loud). I don't particularly want to give away too much of what made this book good; it's mainly a series of beautiful, clever, or otherwise superb moments that you kind of just have to find yourself; if I'm going to go around describing them, you might as well read the book, which I seriously urge you to do. And I urge the Catastrophone Orchestra to produce more of this kind of work.

A Collection of Works by Catastrophone Orchestra is available from Combustion Books at http://www.combustionbooks.org/ as well as through Amazon, in electronic edition.

Questions that Either Have Been, or Might Some Day be Asked of Me (What Less Wordy Blogs Might Call "FAQ")

Q: So, wait. What's steampunk?

A: The boring question first! Awesome. Steampunk is a genre and subculture based on the idea of alternate history and science fiction, based in a 19th century setting or aesthetic. There's a lot more to it than that, but yeah, that's a lot of it.

Q: So what exactly is a Steampunk Emma Goldman?

A: My character is based on the idea that at some point during her life, Emma Goldman acquired the ability to time-travel. Don't think about it too hard. All you really need to know is that she runs around throughout time and space participating in revolutions, and that she also sometimes makes posts here about political activists of the 19th century whom she feels are worthy of your attention and/or admiration.

Q: Who is Emma Goldman?

A: An excellent question! Emma Goldman was an anarchist during the late 19th and early 20th century. She kicked epic amounts of ass. Want to learn more? Start here!

Q: So are you some type of crazy person who thinks she's, like, Emma Goldman reincarnated?

A: Not at all. I'm some type of crazy person who thinks Emma Goldman was an amazing person who deserves more attention than I think she usually gets, and who I think could be a valuable source of inspiration to activists and aspiring activists in the present day.

Q: Are you an anarchist?

A: At this point, I'm going to say no, but I greatly admire a lot of historical and modern anarchists, and I think that anarchism is a really wonderful philosophy. I think it adds something very important to the political conversation, even if I don't entirely agree with it. It's possible that one day I will come to consider myself an anarchist, but right now, I don't.

Q: What are your politics, then?

A: Honestly, I'm not sure right now. I'm about 80% ready to declare myself an anarchist, though I've been a left-wing progressive for most of my life. I'd say I'm at the stage where I'm comfortable admitting I haven't figured it out yet, but I'm doing a lot of thinking on the subject.

Q: So, how did this become a thing for you?

A: Two ways, really. First, I was getting sick of the way the steampunk subculture, (in which I have been an active participant since about 2006) tended to be apolitical. I saw a lot of admiration for artists and scientists of the past, but none for activists. I figured people with an interest in history were in a great position to talk about politics, so when all the Scott Walker drama in Wisconsin was heating up, I decided to stage a Steampunk Pro-Union Rally to talk about the history and present status of organized labor. And it was amazing. It happened that I decided to dress up as Emma Goldman for the event, and people loved that, so I continued doing so at steampunk events as way of politicizing things. Then when I started participating in Occupy Wall Street, I realized that the real world of politics needed a little Emma Goldman too, and did a few performances in Zuccotti Park.

Q: Is what you do political performance art?

A: Uh, yes, yes it is. Gosh, I'm pretentious, aren't I?

Q: Would you find it awesome if other people started dressing up as political activists of the 19th century at steampunk events?

A: Yes. Yes I would, thank you for asking. As it happens, I can personally attest to a Steampunk Voltairine de Cleyre, and a Steampunk Subcomandante Marcos, and I'd love to see more.

Q: Why do you perform in sparkly red lipstick?

A: The red is for Red Emma, the sparkles are because Emma believed in everyone's right to beautiful, radiant things, and also it looks awesome.

Q: What's that thing you wear on your arm?

A: That's my time-travel device! I call it the Means of Production. I seized it, you see. For the people.

Q: What about this blog...are all the people you write about anarchists?

A: Not at all. Many of them are, but the only thing that they all have in common is that I find them politically admirable in some way, and that they lived at least part of their lives in the 19th century.

Q: I have a really good idea for someone you should write about!

A: That wasn't a question, but yay! If you suggest them to me, it is very possible that I will write about them. It is also possible that I was already planning to do so, but your suggestion may spur me into action.

Q: Where can I go for updates about Steampunk Emma Goldman's performances, as well as blog updates and other random links and thoughts about politics and history?

A: It sounds like you're looking for the Steampunk Emma Goldman Facebook Page! Like the page, and you will get all sorts of fun things.

Q: I know that Emma Goldman has been spotted in various time periods and locations. She seems to look different now than she did during what is generally thought of as her natural lifetime. Tell the truth. Is Steampunk Emma Goldman a Time Lord?

A: As an anarchist, who abhors hierarchy of any kind, Steampunk Emma Goldman prefers the term "Time Comrade."

Q:I had a question, and you didn't answer it!

A: Sorry! Put it in the comments and I will edit this post to include it.

The New Orleans General Strike of 1892 Laughs at Your Shitty Attempts to Divide the Working Class With Racism

You know what's key to a successful strike? Numbers. Well, a lot of things are key to a successful strike, but numbers are definitely on the list. So it's no surprise that the 1892 New Orleans General Strike looks formidable off the bat: between the actual strikers and their families, half of the 1892 population of New Orleans were participants. This wasn't some group of dudes being like "hey, working conditions suck, let's strike! Hey, why is everyone either ignoring us, or, since this is the 19th century, beating twelve kinds of shit out of us?" This was literally half of the city of New Orleans standing up and calling bullshit on the city's Board of Trade and their tendency to stick their fingers in their ears and go "lalalala, I can't hear you" when unions tried to negotiate with them, which is a thing that can get really fucking annoying.

Before I really get into this, I want to make it clear just why this particular historical incident was so full of win. It was an anomaly. The striking (haha!) thing about the New Orleans General Strike of 1892 (spoiler!) was the refusal of the various unions and labor organizations to engage in racism or to divide along color lines, and the reason that is something worth talking about is because it was unusual. Unions of the 19th century were appallingly racist, using organized labor to keep people of color out of jobs they felt should be held by white people, even jobs that had, prior to the rise of organized labor, been traditionally held by black people. I want to make it clear that I do not intend this article to imply that the events we're going to be talking about in New Orleans in 1892 were an indication of some kind of lack of racism in the 19th century labor movement. I do mean to imply that the 1892 General Strike was pretty much the best thing ever, because it stood out like an awesome thing in a sea of racist bullshit. (Yes, just like that.) Anyway, to continue.

The whole thing started with three local unions, which happened to be fully racially integrated, one of them being predominantly black, deciding that they wanted better pay, and a shorter work day. Not the legendary 8 hour day, you understand, no, these guys were going for a 10 hour day. Now, it happens that all of these unions were affiliated with the AFL. New Orleans had, just that year (which was 1892, weren't you paying attention to the title?) seen a huge increase in union membership, and the AFL was actually pretty huge right then, which meant that having the AFL on your side was a definite Good Thing. Within New Orleans, the workers had formed something called the Amalgamated Council, an organization of unions that represented over 20,000 workers. Keep them in mind, we'll get back to them. But let me back up a bit here, because I sort of forgot to tell you guys what the political climate of the 19th century Deep South was in regards to the labor movement.

It. Was. Shit. Strikes tended to result in brutal retaliation and bloodshed, and Louisiana in particular had seen a horrific massacre of striking black sugar cane workers at Thibodaux, in what was aptly known as the Thibodaux Massacre, probably the single bloodiest conflict in American labor history, and woefully ignored by a lot of people (googling "Thibodaux Massacre" will get you less than one tenth the hits of "Haymarket Massacre" despite the second incident going by a lot of other names and having a lot fewer corpses) because, say it with me kids, ALL THE MEN WOMEN AND CHILDREN WHO WERE MURDERED AT THIBODAUX IN COLD BLOOD FOOLISHLY FAILED TO BE WHITE. That's no way to get in the history books, guys!

Before I move on to a far less rage/depressing-inducing strike (the one this article is actually about), I want to share with you an irrelevant factoid about another failed strike by black agricultural workers in the late 19th century south. I couldn't rationally fit this factoid into any part of the essay, so I'm just going to share it with you here and hope you appreciate it as much as I do. It seems, you see, that in 1880, black agricultural workers were on strike for a minimum wage of a dollar a day, and threatening to leave the state if they didn't get what they wanted. I bring this up, not because the strike was successful (it was broken, and the strikers jailed) but because it had the best slogan I have ever heard, "A Dollar a Day, or Kansas." See, it makes sense in context, since they were threatening to leave the state for better jobs elsewhere, but seriously, how awesome is "or Kansas" as a threat? I'm going to use it from now on. Hey adbots! No posting on this blog...or Kansas! Hey trolls, no posting trollish bullshit on this blog...OR KANSAS! Try it sometimes, I like it.

So. New Orleans, 1892. Like I said, there were a lot of issues being struck for, but the main one, the one that got everyone on board, was just the recognition of the legitimacy of unions, period. Yeah, the Triple Alliance (the name given to the three racially integrated unions who started the whole thing, namely the Teamsters, the Scalesmen, and the Packers) wanted certain specific things; a preferential union shop, overtime pay, that ten hour day I was talking about, etc, but what brought the rest of the unions in was the fact that the city Board of Trade didn't just refuse to give them those things, it refused to fucking sit down and talk to them like grownups. During the first week, 3,000 workers (or about six percent of the people in New Orleans) were on strike, and NO NEGOTIATIONS TOOK PLACE. The Board of Trade, who I'm going to start calling The Board because it sounds kinda like The Borg and therefor appropriately evil was all "no, we will not talk to you about these issues, unions. Instead we will form a committee to raise money for 'defense,' ask the governor to send in the fucking state militia, and wait for the press to launch a series of really gross racist attacks."

So, with The Board being assholes, all the other unions in the city kind of sat back and went "huh. I wonder how well we'll do at being taken seriously if the city is basically announcing its intention to screw over unions, always, for no reason. Probably not well." Essentially, they realized that the Triple Alliance's problems were their problems. Or, to quote a slightly later, but awesome labor organization, they realized that An Injury to One is an Injury to All. The Board made no secret of the fact that they basically thought unions in general were the enemy here, and, surprisingly enough, by doing that, they got a whole lot of other unions to be their enemies. I believe the term for that is "solidarity." And we're going to get back to that word, I just want to talk a little more about the strike first.

The Board had a cunning plan, though! Remember how there were three unions in the Triple Alliance? I mean, that makes sense. Well, only one of them was predominantly black; the other two were mostly white. So, what the hell, The Board said. We'll totally sit down and negotiate. With the white guys.

There have been countless times when exactly this happened, when the white workers were quick to say "sure! We never liked black people anyway." The Board did it because it was a strategy known to work; it was a great way of getting workers to turn on each other.

This time, though, the white unions responded with a resounding "are you fucking kidding me?" I'm actually going to turn this one over to Jon Stewart, they responded like this:



(I did not make this gif. I have no idea who did. If you did, I will gladly credit you, if you let me know.)

Anyway, after refusing to sit down with The Board in the absence of the black union, dancing around in front of a gospel choir and asking The Board precisely which part of the concept of a Triple Alliance they didn't understand, the two white unions returned to the picket lines, and solidarity was maintained. No one was going to be agreeing to any terms until those terms applied to everyone.

Despite the clear awesomeness of the strikers, there was not a lot of public support for this strike. Well...that's kind a misleading thing to say. With half the population of the city affiliated with either the Triple Alliance or the Amalgamated Council (which wasn't striking just yet, but were eagerly standing by with pom poms yelling "we love strikers! Go strikers!" and hoping to go on strike themselves as soon as the Council would agree on it), how much public support do they really need? They were the public, right? But the newspapers were pretty anti-strike. The New Orleans Times-Picayune in particular seems to have been hilariously pro-strikers' goals, but anti-any-means-by-which-such-goals-might-be-achieved. They were all "what? why won't The Board just recognize that unions are a thing? Why is that a problem? Damnit, the Board should recognize unions!" while at the same time being like "going on strike? What are you people, animals? What is wrong with you?" It's also kind of remarkable how many of their headlines proclaim that the strike is totally over and done with, thanks for your time, we're so glad everyone's going back to work yay! that were incongruously published right when the strike was really getting going. I'm not sure if that was like, bad information, wishful thinking, or just a flat-out attempt to lie to the public. Possibly some combination of the three.

However, just a few short days after those incorrect headlines, the New Orleans Times-Picayune, which I am going to be shortening to NOT-P, even though that looks weird, was forced to publish the following headline:

"THE STRIKE-

A Majority of Union Bodies Hold Meetings-

And Agree To Strike Whenever The Amalgamated Council Say the Word"

That was November 1st, 1892. So now all we need was for the Amalgamated Council to say the word. Meanwhile, the NOT-P was publishing almost daily reports that the strike was definitely over for sure this time, despite the fact that it totally wasn't, as well as occasional bits of strike-based "humor' in a little joke column called "Our Picayunes" which I guess would be the equivalent of a modern-day column called "Our Two Cents." These jokes are painfully unfunny. Sample (for which I apologize, but it feels necessary for establishing context for the strike jokes): "seamless dresses are coming into use. If they seem less than the ball dresses that have been worn, they should not be allowed."

Big laffs. Anyway, the, and I use the term with hand-injuringly large finger-quotes (or just regular quotes, since I'm actually typing this, not speaking it) "humor" they had to offer on the strike was:

"There are many things in nature which are strikingly beautiful; but nature has not yet acquired the habit of going on strike." I guess the point of that one is that...strikes are bad? But not as bad as puns? Fuck you, NOT-P, if that pun is the best you can do.

"Man earns his bread by the sweat of his brow, until his brow strikes." I don't think I get this one. Maybe this one could actually be construed as pro-strike, if you assume that the "man" stands in for the bosses, and "his brow" for the workers? Am I reading too much into this? I'd love to know if people at the time found this shit funny. Was this like, the Stewart/Colbert of the day, or was it more like old Family Circus reprints? If anyone has any knowledge of 19th century reactions to "Our Picayunes" please put them in the comments.

"It is hoped that the hearse drivers will not strike. It would be awkward to make a man walk to his own funeral, and the coach drivers strike would be crowding the mourners."

Ok, that last one is actually worth a morbid chuckle. That is legitimately a little bit funny. Good job, NOT-P! Now, let's get back to your misleading coverage of the labor conflict. By November 4th, NOT-P couldn't keep pretending the strike wasn't going to happen; the meetings with that committee The Board had formed were going nowhere, and the Amalgamated Council was on the verge of calling for a general strike, just like they kept saying they would. So the newspapers abruptly switched tactics. Instead of denying the existence of the strike, they started hand-wringing about what an awful thing this strike would be. Not because it would be bad for commerce; they'd been doing that for weeks. They started raising the possibility that the strikers would turn violent. Where they got this idea, it's not exactly clear. NOT-P actually tried to attribute it to the labor leaders themselves, but it didn't quote anyone, instead just said that the leaders "know" that it will be hard to stop 25,000 strikers from turning violent. Ominous, NOT-P! Very ominous.

The papers seemed to take it as a given that a strike of that many people would be violent. Just...well, because. Because 25,000 people! Because strike! BECAUSE, DAMNIT! Because of reasons. And because, though they mostly (but not entirely) left this in the subtext, because a lot of the people on strike were black.

After a couple of false starts, the general strike began on November 8th. One half of the city was now officially on strike; black and white workers, almost all of the unionized work force of New Orleans. 43 different unions. Think about the fuss in your city the last time there was like, a transit strike. THAT WAS ONE UNION THIS WAS 43 AND INCLUDED THE COAL SHOVELERS AND THE SHOE SALESMEN. DEAL WITH THAT.

That violence everyone talked about kind of failed to materialize. What did happen was the almost complete shut-down of New Orleans. Stores were empty. Street cleaning stopped, as did gas service, leaving buildings dark. The lamp-trimmers responsible for keeping the streetlights going stopped working too, and eventually the streets went dark as well. Even firefighting stopped. Performances at the opera house were suspended. Shit was getting real.

But see, November 10th front page headlines were a bit odd. They talk about the governor calling for a militia, and the forming of a "volunteer police force" which sounds to me like a mob with badges, but I could be wrong (they might not have had badges). What those headlines don't mention is any reason why the city would need such things. They make absolutely no mention of strikers doing any of the violent things that the papers had been so worried about. Basically, they wanted this force to help protect scabs. Booooooo!

Meanwhile, though, there were people with something interesting to say about all this business. A newspaper called the Boston Traveler (a fairly radical journal) spoke up noting that it was really amazing how all of these white people were on strike in support of the black people in the Triple Alliance. Of course, they made the same points I did earlier in this article; this was a huge anomaly, and really only an example of people doing, for once, what they should have been doing always, but still, people were noticing an odd amount of unity and, dare we say it, solidarity.

Hey, can we talk about that word for a second? Let me just break down really quickly how I think it should and should not be used:

Correct:

Black Activist: We're trying to get stuff done here, and the authorities are mistreating us and our labor union!
White Activist: Hey, the authorities are mistreating those people of color and their labor union. Let's go on strike, in solidarity with them!
Everyone: Yay! Solidarity!

Incorrect:

Black Activist: I've noticed some racism within this movement.
White Activist: Why are you being so divisive? Where's your sense of solidarity?

Incorrect:

Female Activist: I've been sexually assaulted by a male participant in this movement.
Male Activist: Shhhhh! Where's your sense of solidarity?

Also, just for the hell of it, Correct:



Very correct. (Also, the video totally has an image in it of Lucy Parsons! Remember her? No? Go back and read what I wrote about her.)

In the case of the New Orleans General Strike of 1892, it was definitely the correct kind, not the other kind, which is cool. And yes, the white union members were motivated by their fear that one day their own unions would have the same trouble getting recognized; this wasn't some kind of act of pure altruism, but see, in a way, I think that's what makes it awesome. Everyone, black and white, was just like "hey, I see we have mutual interests. Want to fight for them? In solidarity? Fuck yeah."

So with all this good-type-of-solidarity running amok, what could the authorities do? Cave to the demands of the strikers? Hmm, that sounds hard. How about racism! Racism would probably help, right? (This was the 19th century south. Racism was their fix for everything. People used racism to repair clothing, and to get rid of aphid infestations. If you went to the doctor he would tell you "take three racisms and call me in the morning." If tech support had existed, and you called them up, the first thing they would say, instead of "have you tried rebooting?" would be "have you tried racism?" I'm not sure what the hell I'm talking about anymore, but what I'm saying is, dudes were racist.)

So the papers started making all kinds of clearly racist accusations and implications about the strikers. The New Orleans Times-Democrat published articles about how the black strikers wanted to "take over the city," and the NOT-P ran a story about white women and school-children being insulted by "the blacks." Interestingly, the article doesn't actually say "white women and school-children." It just says "ladies and school-children" but it's pretty clear that, as is frequently the case, white is meant to be read as the default setting for human beings. No evidence whatsoever is provided that this incident actually took place, and, come on, if you were a black striker in 1892 in Louisiana, would you be more concerned with, like, trying to get recognition for your union, or for some reason insulting passing white school-children? Who bothers to insult school-children anyway? The accusation that white "ladies" had been insulted was clearly a dog-whistle, intended to stir up animosity and violence against the black strikers.

Here's the thing about racist, mob-inciting dog-whistles in the 19th century south: they usually worked. This one...didn't. No mobs formed. No violence happened on the picket lines either, to the point where the authorities were actually kind of confused about it. The mayor sent out a call for those volunteer "deputies" to fight the strikers...and less than sixty people turned up. The mayor banned public gatherings, which is a totally awesome and constitutional thing to do, especially when there's no sign of violence at all, and The Board finally convinced the Governor to send in the militia for...some reason, but when they showed up and found exactly zero people behaving in ways worthy of militiaing, they just kind of turned around and went home.

It was awesome. All these racist white people just WAITING for the black strikers to get violent so they could have some reason to shoot them, and a whole bunch of nothing happening, and The Board and everyone else just panicking about all the violence they were SURE was going to happen any second now, because I mean, come ON, there were BLACK PEOPLE, and just...nothing.

Finally, The Board agreed to sit down and enter binding arbitration with the unions. And...well, here's where the story gets kind of...not sad, but complicated. Because you really want this story to have a happy ending; I mean, I do, but it's a mixed bag. A lot of workers ended up with higher pay, and shorter hours, but they did not get the union shop they wanted, and none of the unions of the Triple Alliance ended up gaining recognition. At the time, a lot of people saw this as a victory for the unions; it certainly increased union membership substantially in Louisiana, but in the end, the unions lost a lot, too.

Here's what I say, though. This was less a victory of organized labor than it was a victory against racism. The fact that the unions didn't gain recognition sucks, but the fact that they were unwilling to divide along racial lines, even if it would have allowed some of them to get that recognition is awesome. This isn't a story about unions winning in a fight against the bosses; this is a story about a multi-racial group refusing to let their opponents use racism to incite violence or divide them in their struggles, and for that, I think the New Orleans General Strike of 1892 does represent a victory.

Causes: Workers rights, anti-racism.
Specific lessons for modern activists: Solidarity forever (or Kansas)!

Media Coverage of Your Favorite Emma Goldman Impersonator

That is, I assume I am your favorite Emma Goldman impersonator. Your favorite steampunk one anyway.

Anyway:

My performance at Occupy Wall Street was mentioned in The Nation: Emma Goldman Occupies Wall Street.

I was also featured in a wee documentary here:

Emma Goldman and The East Village's Radical Past Final Cut from Chris Matthews on Vimeo.

Read the full article here: A Radical's Legacy

That's all for now! Watch this space for a new post soon, and news about another upcoming appearance at Occupy Wall Street.

Lucy Parsons: So Badass it Took 89 Years and a Fire to Stop Her

Lucy Parsons, 1886, age 33.


Lucy Eldine Gonzalez Parsons was born a slave, in Texas, in 1853. So she's automatically tougher than you, right off the bat. Let there be no mistake about that. Strap in, though, because her life didn't get a whole lot easier from there.

She married a white former Confederate soldier, named Albert Parsons in 1871. The marriage wasn't legal, since he was white, and they were in Texas, in, as I may have mentioned, 1871, but Lucy Parsons wasn't going to let a little thing like that stop her, and she married the hell out of him anyway, because he was almost as awesome as she was, and after being a slave, Lucy had probably had entirely enough of people telling her what to do to last her the rest of her goddamn life, thank you very much. The two soon found that Reconstruction-era Texans did not take kindly to marriages between white men and women of mixed black, Native American, and Mexican ancestry, who were, by the way, campaigning together for an end to racial segregation and restrictions on interracial marriage. At all. Lucy's husband was working to register black voters when he was shot in the leg and threatened with lynching, whereupon the couple decided, quite understandably, that they had had about enough of Texas. In 1873, they moved to Chicago.

You'd think Chicago would've been better for our brave young couple, and for a while, you'd be right. Albert found work as a printer, and everything was great, until a massive railroad strike in 1877. Albert and Lucy both supported the strike, and Albert ended up giving a speech to 25,000 workers advocating peaceful means of protest. Obviously, we can't be having THAT, so he was fired from his job at the Chicago Times and blacklisted for helping to organize workers.

With Albert unable to find work, Lucy stepped up to the proverbial plate, opening a dress shop to support her and her husband. And hey, as long as she had a shop, she figured, she might as well start hosting meetings of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union. Because involvement with organized labor had worked out so well for her husband. Whatever; she was passionate about it, so she went for it, making it clear, not for the first, or the last time, that she basically did not understand the concept of fear. I should probably mention that she was pregnant with her first child at the time, and working full time as the only wage earner in the household. But she still felt she had time for some extreme political activism. Pregnancy slows most people down. Most people are not Lucy Parsons.

It was around this time that Lucy started to get truly radical. I am using "radical" here both in the sense of "advocating for extreme measures to create change, including 'propaganda of the deed' (aka, violence and destruction) to fight poverty and injustice" and also in the early 1990's sense of "completely amazing." How radical did Lucy Parsons become in the 1880s? Well, she and her husband ended up helping to found an anarchist publication, and she began writing for The Socialist and The Alarm. She argued, in word and in print, that violent and direct action, or the threat of it, was the only way to win the demands of the workers. Oh, and she started openly calling herself an anarchist. Remember, she was doing all this while being black and female in the 1880s. By this time, she was considered more dangerous than her husband. You know, the guy advocating peaceful measures. She wasn't doing that; she was doing the other thing. As far as she was concerned, wage slavery was just like slavery-slavery, and it took a war to end that, so it seemed logical that armed conflict would be necessary to end this. That was what she preached. By the 1920s, she was considered "more dangerous than a thousand rioters" by the Chicago police, but we're getting to that.

If Albert Parsons' name sounds familiar to you, it's because of a riot in a place called Haymarket Square, which I really hope does sound familiar to you. As you probably know, many civilians, and eight policemen were killed there, seven of the policemen by friendly fire, one of them by a possible anarchist bomb. Now, Albert wasn't there at the time. As in, he was not physically present at the time the bomb was thrown into the crowd of policemen, and therefore extremely unlikely to have been the one who did the throwing, unless he had a hell of a good arm. Since Albert Parson's years as a pitcher for the Paris Commune Reds, a team in his local anarchist baseball league, were long behind him, I don't think he was up to it. Especially since I just made that baseball thing up. And there is absolutely no reason to think he was in any way involved with plans to throw said bomb. But he was one of the men accused in the murder of the one cop not killed by other cops.

Albert went into hiding as soon as he was falsely accused, but he only stayed in hiding until the trial date, whereupon he walked right into the courthouse, turned himself in, and sat with his fellow defendants. Because you don't get to marry Lucy Parsons unless you are a stone cold badass. Lucy, by the way, had been arrested multiple times while Albert was in hiding on the suspicion that she knew where he was. They even kicked around the idea of arresting her as a conspirator in the death of the police officer, but decided not to, because they figured that a woman wouldn't do something like that, because, you know, bombs are unfeminine or something, and they were afraid that a jury would be too likely to sympathize with a bunch of dudes accused of a crime along with a lady, and that the dudes might therefore not get the death penalty.

This will hopefully go down in history as the stupidest reason ever given for not arresting someone for something they didn't do.

Albert was convicted on roughly zero evidence, and, along with four other men, sentenced to hang, more because the judge and jury wanted to make an example for all the other anarchists and labor activists out there than because anyone thought they were actually involved with murder. Lucy was about as happy with that as you would expect. She began touring the country, speaking about the injustice of what was going to happen to her husband for his political beliefs, and appealing for clemency. The police basically went on tour with her, arresting her, barring her from buildings where she was supposed to speak, sometimes by physically boarding up the doors, and being an overall obnoxious, harrass-y nuisance. Meanwhile, the labor movement itself took a sharp turn away from supporting the Haymarket defendants, since, you know, they were making them look bad, being all falsely accused and stuff, what were they thinking? Lucy stuck with her husband and the rest of the accused, arguing that not only were they innocent of any wrongdoing, but that the policemen were responsible for getting their own fool selves killed. It didn't really matter what she said, though; anarchy was being put on trial, almost literally. The prosecution hung red and black flags up around the courtroom, just to remind the jury what they should be afraid of.

Lucy kept campaigning, stirred up a lot of sympathy, and got famous in the process, but it unfortunately didn't do all that much good from the perspective of a bunch of guys in jail about to be hanged. The governor of Illinois was having none of Lucy, or anyone else in the world's objections; he was under too much political pressure to hang the anarchists, evidence be damned. On the day of the execution, Lucy brought her two children to see their father one last time. Instead of being allowed to see him, all three were arrested. Lucy was forced to strip naked, and left in a cold cell (how cold? November 11th in fucking Chicago cold) with her children, until after her husband had been executed. Once he was safely dead, she was left for a few more hours, then finally allowed to get dressed, and released, humiliated and grief-stricken.

At this point, Lucy was angry. Not regular person angry, either. She was a grieving, anarchist, former slave, single mother with two kids and an unjustly executed husband angry. I'm not sure how much rage the human body can actually contain, but I'm pretty sure Lucy had enough in her by this time that small objects left in her presence would burst into flames. I mean, it seems only reasonable. Enough rage that, if she were living in a fictional universe created by Joss Whedon or someone like that, she would probably develop telekinesis. (The tendency of real people to fail to develop super powers when their life gets angsty is one of the main issues I have with reality.)

Left with a weekly pension of eight bucks a week by an organization founded to help the widows of the Haymarket martyrs, and not much else, Lucy went right back to her revolutionary activities, terrifying the fuck out of the police, who sometimes arrested her pre-emptively before she could even begin her speeches. Over the course of her long life, Lucy Parsons was a fierce advocate for women's rights, the rights of workers, and free speech. She was the second woman to join the Industrial Workers of the World, eventually taking over the job of editing the Liberator, a newspaper put out by the IWW. She used her position to write about women's issues, including the right to access to birth control, and the right to divorce, and remarry. She gradually shifted to the Communist party, beginning in 1925, officially joining them in 1939. She prefigured the idea of sit-down strikes and factory takeovers with the idea that a strike should consist of the workers seizing the means of production. She verbally ripped the shit out of anyone who recommended patience and compliance over revolution and reform.

She came into conflict with other anarchists, notably this blog's namesake, Emma Goldman, over her opposition to the idea of free love. Maybe it was because of how much shit she took for her own marriage, maybe not, but Lucy believed that marriage and the family were natural for human beings, and opposed anarchists who advocated for free love, which was a substantial number of anarchists. This really just goes to show that she was enough of a badass to stand up, not only against the establishment, but against the rest of the opposition to the establishment, something she and Emma actually had in common. One does not throw down against Emma Goldman lightly, but Lucy Parsons was more than tough enough to handle it. I'm not going to speak to which of them was right about that issue; I think it's enough to say that they both had strong views and they both refused to back down. Though they started out as friends, at least according to Lucy, by the end of their lives the two of them couldn't stand each other. Honestly, I think they were both really wrong about each other, and that's sad. Emma thought Lucy was an opportunist who used her husband's death to gain personal fame, and who jumped on any cause's bandwagon she could, and Lucy thought Emma betrayed the cause and sold out to the capitalist establishment when she denounced the Soviet Union. Hilariously, Lucy was pissed enough about Emma turning on the Soviet Union to refer to her, in her retaliatory denunciation of Emma, as her great friend for the past thirty years, presumably just to make the rejection sting more. Both of them were wrong about the other, and it's a shame, because it would've been way cooler if they had been friends. We can add "and is best friends with Lucy Parsons" to my alternate universe, Emma Goldman as anarchist steamship pirate idea.

In her later years, Lucy worked with the International Labor Defense, a Communist group, to defend the Scottsboro Eight and Angelo Herndon. She worked hard to expose the way the justice system was used as a tool of oppression, just like she had when she was trying to defend her husband. It was the first time she had been back to the South since leaving Texas. Recall that the last time she had been to the South, people had been shooting at her husband. I may have mentioned this before, but Lucy Parsons was a tough lady.

Lucy's work with racial issues was very much influenced by the fact that she, like a lot of anarchists and communists at the time, (and to this day) thought of race as less relevant than class. Once class was eliminated, she believed, there would be no racial issues. A misguided idea she shared with a hell of a lot of people. It didn't stop her from working against lynchings and other forms of racial violence and oppression, though. Remember, she was into both reform and revolution.

Here she is in 1920, still going strong.


So that's Lucy Parsons. She died at the age of 89, in a house fire, and was still actively speaking and inspiring people to the end. If being 89 didn't stop her from doing that, I see no reason why being dead should. A truly brave woman, and a tireless opponent of oppression, Lucy Parsons deserves to be remembered and respected for her work and her activism.

Causes: Anarchist, communist, anarcha-feminist, regular feminist, anti-racist
Specific lessons for modern activists: People in Texas might not approve of your marriage. Fuck those people.