Jim Rigby : Towards a Radical Christianity

Jesus drives the money changers from the Temple. Image from ETC / University of South Florida.

A Radical Christianity?

I would say any Christian who leaves the fate of the poor to market forces has renounced Christ in every meaningful sense.

By Jim Rigby / The Rag Blog / May 15, 2010

Dr. Jim Rigby, an activist for peace and justice and for gay rights and women’s reproductive rights, is pastor of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Austin, Texas. He was interviewed by Alex Doherty of the New Left Project about a radical interpretation of Christianity.

Your journey seems to have been one of increasing politicization but without moving away from religion — can you describe that journey for us?

To me, religion is a fancy word for how we build our frame of meaning, and politics is just a fancy word for how we treat each other. As a child I learned an apolitical version of Christianity and was duly offended if a preacher ever brought up social issues in a sermon. Religion, I was taught, was a personal relationship with Jesus. So I could sing “Jesus loves the little children,” but did not feel any need to confront the possibility that my nation might be dropping napalm on them.

Nor did I consider myself political in college or seminary. Of course, I was political, I just didn’t know it because the religious worldview I had been taught was so in line with the dominant culture that my own politics were invisible to me. In my mind, I was just a white Christian male who happened to worship a white male version of Christ.

I wasn’t selling out consciously, but it was in my interest not to notice the power systems that left me in a place of privilege. By viewing religion as politically neutral, I could disguise the unfair advantages that came from being a white Christian heterosexual male, My complicity with various oppressions was unconscious, but I knew enough not to explore other ways of thinking, so, on some level, I knew what I was doing.

When I began to work with survivors of rape I could feel the role my male privilege played in their trauma. Later, that insight grew to include what my heterosexual privilege meant to gay and lesbian persons. Finally, I came to understand that justice has to include the whole human family. I realize that most leftists have a well deserved contempt for religion, but I personally came to hear the gospel as a call to justice for all people, which is how many oppressed people have heard it from the beginning.

In your sermons, you take biblical stories to have metaphorical but not literal truth. What is a metaphorical approach to reading the bible?

If the Bible were literally true we would not need it. We do not need symbols for things on the surface of our experience, but the more deeply we wish to speak of life, the more we need poetry and ritual. Reason does very well at apprehending special affairs like matter, it is not so good at apprehending time. Symbols describe aspects of life that are invisible at any one moment but play out over time.

As I studied the stories of the Bible I realized that they were often Jewish versions of much older stories. They weren’t about actual people. They were poems about life as a human experiences it. The figures in the stories weren’t historical but allegorical representations of experiential lessons.

Science and history are attempts to describe our experiences from the outside in. Art is the attempt to express those same experiences from the inside out. Religion is that intuitive act that balances those two vital concerns. As the word implies, religion is reconnecting the pieces of our experience into a meaningful whole. We never have enough information, so that effort requires faith. We never can get complete control of events, so it requires hope. We are never completely what we strive to be, so it requires forgiveness and love.

You view the gospels as having a radical message — how is it then that the Church has so often sided with forces of oppression?

The church was radical for several centuries but was co-opted by the Roman Empire about the time of Constantine. The reason for this hostile takeover is pretty obvious. It is the same reason corporations buy protest songs and turn them into commercials.

Religion deserves much of the blame it receives for historical monstrosities such as the crusades and inquisitions, but more often, religion falls captive to political bullies who use it for very secular purposes. The war in the Middle East isn’t really about religion at all. It is a fight over land hiding behind the cloak of religion. I doubt very seriously that the primary motive for the Crusades was rescuing the holy lands from Islam. I suspect the booty captured by “pious” European kings was much more to the point.

The role of religion in violence may be closer to the role alcohol plays in domestic abuse as a “dis-inhibitor.” If you blame abuse on the alcohol, you may be missing the real dynamics of bullying. I think Voltaire was right to say those who believe absurdities are much more likely to commit atrocities, but the real question for me, is can there be a religion that honors reason, science, and universal human rights? If we use “religion” as a synonym for supernaturalism, the answer, obviously, is no. But I think it is a conversation worth having.

What does the word “God” mean to you?

There are many religious forms that do not personify experience using a concept of God at all. Non-theist religion has a rich heritage when it isn’t being burned by theists. So a personal God is not necessary, but it can be a helpful symbol for doing elementary metaphysics — which is addressing questions like “what’s it all about?” We cannot really answer the question, but our minds will construct some such frame.

Einstein would often use the word “God” as a shorthand metaphysical device, probably to save time and give a charm to his imagery. He did not believe in a personal God, but he found the symbol useful for talking about everything at once. Our minds need a frame to begin the task of understanding our experience. The universe is a boundless verb, but our minds need the closure of nouns. Hegel said religion is putting philosophy in pictures. That’s an over simplification, of course, but it states a truth I think.

“God” is a human symbol that allows us to speak of everything that is too big, too deep, and too strange for our ordinary understanding. In Hebrew, the divine name of God is YHWH which is a verb form of the word “being.” The other names for God are like facets on that one diamond. The point is not to believe in a being, but to illumine various aspects of being itself.

Your Church took the unusual step of accepting a confirmed atheist — the writer and activist Robert Jensen — as a member of your congregation. Why did you accept him as a part of your Church? How was his acceptance viewed within and outside St. Andrews?

Robert Jensen was an example of someone who had rejected religion for all the right reasons. When I heard his speeches I felt prophetic principles beneath his disdain for religion. He hated religion for the same reason that the prophets hated the religion of their day.

When Dr. Jensen joined our church, people inside our church were delighted, but many outside the church were quite upset. It was a bit strange. I received hate mail from theists and he received hate mail from atheists. We were ordered to take him off the roles by the next higher level of the church but we refused. Bob has been a tremendous addition to our church and has allowed people to feel much freer in rejecting supernaturalism and challenging the dominant religion of our nation which is, of course, capitalism.

What is your opinion of the so-called “New Atheists” — in particular Christopher Hitchens, Sam Harris, and Richard Dawkins?

I have great affinity for atheists like Robert Ingersoll, but some of the people writing bestselling books are like the televangelists of atheism. They completely misunderstand what intelligent religious people are saying. If you assume that the worst of religion represents the rest, then laughing at us is easy. It is easy to refute Pat Robertson, but I’ve yet to hear a convincing argument that the world was poorer because Martin Luther King and Gandhi were religious. Who can’t refute flat earth religion? I’m sure they are good people, but reading their books feels like getting lynched by people who don’t know how to tie a knot.

When I read an atheist like Bertrand Russell I get a very different feeling. His indignation against religion came straight out of his concern for humankind so he knew where to put the scalpel. I also love Monty Python’s attacks on bad religion. The New Atheists feel more like high school bullies making fun of the slow and weak. I agree with most of what they say, but their cruelty toward their frightened and superstitious brothers and sisters is counterproductive. When confronted with ignorance a fool ridicules and a sage teaches.

What is wrong with capitalism from a Christian standpoint?

Theoretically, a Christian could support many types of government, but the core insights of the religion are basically socialist and even, I think, anarchist. Jesus began his ministry by saying “I’ve come to preach good news to the poor, and to announce the acceptable year of God.”

That statement would have been understood as announcing the year of Jubilee, which meant a release of prisoners and a redistribution of the wealth. To pretend Jesus wasn’t political doesn’t make any sense. The Romans wouldn’t have killed him for being a religious leader. Crucifixion was primarily reserved for insurrectionists. The fact that the Romans put “King of the Jews” on his cross was not a religious taunt. It was a threat to any movement of liberation among the people.

Of course, the ancient world didn’t have the word “capitalism” in the modern sense, but they had a word for making money off of interest owed you by your neighbor. It was called “usury” and it was considered a sin. It is a mistake to reduce any religion down to a political position. And it is also wrong to force any religious sectarian viewpoint into the public sphere. But, I would say any Christian who leaves the fate of the poor to market forces has renounced Christ in every meaningful sense.

Much of the religious life consists of ritual. What is the point of religious rituals? What is meant to be achieved by them?

I used to hate rituals. I felt manipulated by them. What I have come to realize is, when they are done voluntarily, rituals can be a way our body comes to understand the symbols in our heads. When birds want to mate they don’t say it with words, they dance. It is written in their bodies. When bees want to tell of far away honey they, too, dance. Our bodies respond to certain movements in a powerful way that rational language cannot touch.

People often think of religious rituals as acts of socialization, but their more important function is to integrate individuals and communities to the circle of life and to help us move through life passages like puberty, marriage, and death. One of the things that makes Americans so easy to frighten is that we do not have rituals that help our bodies understand that death is a part of life and is not to be avoided. Instead of asking people to live without rituals, I believe we should teach the kind of rituals that would help people to recognize the earth as our home, and every human as a part of our family.

Can you recommend some writers on Christianity and religion in general whom you particularly admire.

I was a musician for a while and discovered that those who can talk about music usually can’t make it. Sadly, the same is true for religion. Most theology induces my gagging reflex because religion isn’t supposed to be a special topic of its own. To hear someone talk about religion is like watching someone chew with their mouth open. I would much rather see them absorb the teachings and then demonstrate them in acts of courage and compassion.

Adult religion shouldn’t in the foreground of our lives. It is more the wonder behind our science, the passion behind our art, and the compassion behind our ethics. I love the writings of MLK, Gandhi, and Tolstoy. But I also love an atheist like Carl Sagan who turns science into a hymn. Richard Dawkins has some nice celebrations of nature. Anyone who tunes their instrument to the chord of nature, and becomes a friend of humankind is singing the one hymn written in every human heart.

[This interview was first published May 10, 2010, by the New Left Project.]

Thanks to Robert Jensen / The Rag Blog

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Mississippi Politics : Nasal Denial and Oily Delusion

Graphic by Larry Ray / The Rag Blog.

Mississippi Politics:
Getting stinkier by the minute

By Larry Ray / The Rag Blog / May 15, 2010

GULFPORT, Mississippi — Growing up in Texas I was sure politics couldn’t get any stinkier, any dumber, or any more corrupt than ours. Then later in life I moved to Mississippi and soon saw that Texas politics pales in all categories of underachievement and good-old-boy domination when compared to the Magnolia State.

But Mississippi politics is generally endured much like mosquitoes, stifling summer heat, and down here on the Gulf Coast, hurricanes. Katrina wiped most of the edge of the state off the map in 2005. We had just gotten the place more or less back in shape and looking very good again, then April 20th, 2010, 25 days ago, a British Petroleum offshore oil well in 5,000 feet of water suffered a “worst case scenario.” And by now it looks like it is even worse than that.

After a lethal fire, explosion, and sinking of a leased drilling rig that killed 11 workers, oil began gushing into the Gulf of Mexico uncontrollably from a mile below. For almost a month now, millions of gallons of crude oil continue to escape, out of control. The entire world has been following news reports on British Petroleum’s failed attempts to stop the flow and to deal with a catastrophe that worsens daily.

Winds and currents have kept the spill off Mississippi shores so far, but the petroleum odor from hundreds of square miles of floating oil some 40 miles offshore has been noticeable here in communities all along the coast.

About a week and a half ago the moment I stepped outside with the dogs to take a morning walk a heavy, oily, almost diesel-like smell filled the air. A steady south wind was blowing. As we got to the park, folks were stopping to ask one another if they “could smell that.” We all could.

And the vagaries of wind and air currents have brought the petroleum smell back several more times. Folks have been calling city officials and health departments. There have been several mentions of the oily smell up and down the coast by local news media. Folks with severe asthma were told to check with the doctor if it really got bad. But it was not a really big deal.

Then day before yesterday one of our esteemed politicos, Lt. Governor Phil Bryant, had his photo on the front page of the morning paper with the headline, “Bryant Doesn’t Smell The Oil.” The Sun Herald’s article reported that, “Lt. Gov. Phil Bryant’s response to people in South Mississippi who’ve said they can smell oil from the Deepwater Horizon spill in the Gulf is, ‘No, you can’t.’

“Speaking at Wednesday’s Coastal Development Strategies Conference, Bryant said the smell may be coming from their lawn mowers. ‘That is not gasoline coming out of the Gulf,’ he said.”

Bryant, who back slapped his way to hosting the National Association of Lieutenant Governors in July in Biloxi went on about the BP disaster noting it is “not the Exxon Valdez.” Phil was as oily and about as crude as his odorless oil out there declaring there is nothing to worry about, “Y’all come on down here, you hear!”

Bryant’s imperial pronouncement that no one was smelling anything except lawnmower fumes followed the blithe May 1 pronouncement from Mississippi U.S. Rep. Gene Taylor, after a quick fly-over of the gathering spill that, “It’s not as bad as I thought. It’s breaking up naturally; that’s a good thing. The fact that it’s a long way from the Mississippi Gulf Coast, that’s a great thing, because it gives it time to break up naturally.”

Taylor, a supposed Democrat, whose voting record would make Senator Mitch McConnell proud, was already fast becoming very unpopular for his dullness and increasingly regular trips to the all you can eat lobbyist campaign contribution buffet. His remarks exhibiting no real concern for the potential offshore threat elicited an outraged reaction from folks up and down the coast. Taylor’s political future seems to breaking up naturally as well.

It is completely understandable that area chambers of commerce, businesses, and our tourism and seafood industries want to get out the word that our beaches are still clean, seafood is fresh, and that we are open for business. We might well dodge the worst of the damage along with Alabama and Florida. But selling that idea as the oil spill grows, heaves and moves at the whim of sea currents and surface winds is tough to pull off.

Having political buffoons telling the world that folks here aren’t smelling anything but lawnmower fumes, and that the oil is “breaking up naturally” only serves to rob any planned promotional campaign of any credibility it may have.

And I haven’t even mentioned our Governor, Haley Barbour, who made the national news recently after he declared, dewlaps swinging, “When you’re a fat redneck like me and got an accent like mine you can say, ‘well they’re gonna hold me to a higher standard.'”

Higher than what, Governor? The next high tide?

[Retired journalist Larry Ray is a Texas native and former Austin television news anchor. He also posts at The iHandbill.]

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Prohibition II : A Trillion Dollars Down the Drain

Cartoon from WeedPolitik.

40 Years of War on Drugs:
A trillion bucks and things are worse

By Ted McLaughlin / The Rag Blog / May 14, 2010

Back in 1970, President Richard Nixon was having a lot of trouble trying to get something (anything!) accomplished in Vietnam. So he decided to wage a war that he thought he could win, and most of the American populace would support — a war on drugs. He signed the Comprehensive Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act. He said, “Public enemy no. 1 in the United States is drug abuse. In order to fight and defeat this enemy, it is necessary to wage a new, all-out offensive.”

Nixon budgeted $100 million, and the “war on drugs” was off and running. Unfortunately, this new “war on drugs” was as flawed and ill-conceived as his plan to burglarize the Watergate Building. President after president took up the same war, and each one upped the amount of money sunk into the program. Now it is 40 years later, and the only thing that has been accomplished is the spending of over a trillion dollars on this exercise in futility. That money has not slowed down the import of drugs into this country or the use of the illegal drugs.

The current United States Drug Czar, Gil Kerlikowske, admits as much. He says, “In the grand scheme, it has not been successful. Forty years later, the concern about drugs and drug problems is, if anything, magnified, intensified.”

His predecessor, John P. Walters, is more hard-headed. He claims, “To say that all the things that have been done in the war on drugs haven’t made any difference is ridiculous. It destroys everything we’ve done. It’s saying all the people involved in law enforcement, treatment and prevention have been wasting their time. It’s saying all these people’s work is misguided.”

Well, yes. That’s exactly what the last 40 years of the “war on drugs” has shown. Much of the work is misguided — especially the money spent on interdiction, arrest, incarceration, and forced drug programs. This approach simply does not work. How many more years and how much more money must we waste before we realize that?

It is said that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat that history, and that is obviously true with prohibition. We should have learned from the first time it was tried in this country in the 1920s, when alcohol was outlawed. That did not prevent the use of alcohol. Anyone who really wanted it could still get it. All it did was create a huge black market that made underworld gangs rich and much more powerful. It also increased the violence of these underworld gangs as they struggled to control that black market, and many times that violence spilled over to affect innocent people.

Our second attempt at prohibition, the “war on drugs,” has done exactly the same thing. It has not stopped or decreased drug use. Anyone who really wants to use drugs can easily get them. It has also enriched underworld gangs (we now call them “drug cartels”) and made them very powerful. And it has increased the violence connected with those gangs, with much of that violence spilling over to affect innocent people. And it is all caused by the “war on drugs.”

We had the chance to learn the horrors of prohibition the first time we tried it, but we didn’t. And our failure to learn from past mistakes has been devastating both financially and socially. It does not matter whether the prohibited drug is alcohol, marijuana, or some other drug, the effect of the prohibition is the same.

There were those opposed to legalizing alcohol again. They said it would be terrible for the country, because alcohol use would rise sharply. They were wrong. Education programs alerted people to the effects of alcohol overuse and abuse, and treatment programs did wonders for those who wanted treatment for that abuse. Meanwhile, millions continued to use alcohol recreationally, just as they had under prohibition, without ill effects.

It is just a regrettable fact of life that some will abuse any recreational substance. However, that can be controlled by education and treatment programs. In a free country, we should not punish the millions who use the substances in a controlled and recreational way. And we certainly shouldn’t criminalize those hard-working and decent people (especially those who use harmless substances like marijuana). Legalizing drugs will not destroy our society any more than legalizing alcohol did. Those who want them will get them (just as they do now) and those who don’t won’t.

Instead of spending another trillion dollars trying to stop drug use and failing (while the drug cartels get richer and more violent), wouldn’t it make more sense to legalize drugs and then tax the hell out of them? Let those drugs pay not only for treatment programs and education, but also for many other government functions. It would not only mean less taxes of other kinds, but it would also create many legal jobs and income opportunities. Doesn’t that make sense for a country in the middle of a recession?

Sadly, President Obama is following in the failed footsteps of his predecessors. He has budgeted $15.5 billion just for this year’s “war on drugs” — with $10 billion going to the futile interdiction and law enforcement efforts (and that doesn’t count the billions that will be spent for the incarceration of nonviolent drug users in state facilities). This is just throwing good money after bad into a bottomless pit, and it will accomplish nothing — just like the last 40 years. Frankly, that money could be better spent on food, housing, and health care for needy Americans.

It is time for America to admit that the “war on drugs” has failed. Continuing this program will only result in more failure. The only thing that makes sense is to change our policy and recognize that drug abuse is a medical problem — not a criminal problem. Any money spent on drugs should go into education and treatment programs. And our law enforcement agencies should turn their attention to controlling real crimes — like those committed by violent criminals who attack innocent persons and their property. Meanwhile, recreational substance use should be legalized and taxed. A sensible policy like this will not harm our nation — it will save it.

By using the Freedom of Information laws, the Associated Press has learned how some of our first trillion dollars in the failed “war on drugs” was spent. Here are the figures:

  • $20 billion to fight the drug gangs in their home countries. In Colombia, for example, the United States spent more than $6 billion, while coca cultivation increased and trafficking moved to Mexico — and the violence along with it.
  • $33 billion in marketing “Just Say No”-style messages to America’s youth and other prevention programs. High school students report the same rates of illegal drug use as they did in 1970, and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention says drug overdoses have “risen steadily” since the early 1970s to more than 20,000 last year.
  • $49 billion for law enforcement along America’s borders to cut off the flow of illegal drugs. This year, 25 million Americans will snort, swallow, inject and smoke illicit drugs, about 10 million more than in 1970, with the bulk of those drugs imported from Mexico.
  • $121 billion to arrest more than 37 million nonviolent drug offenders, about 10 million of them for possession of marijuana. Studies show that jail time tends to increase drug abuse.
  • $450 billion to lock those people up in federal prisons alone. Last year, half of all federal prisoners in the U.S. were serving sentences for drug offenses.
  • At the same time, drug abuse is costing the nation in other ways. The Justice Department estimates the consequences of drug abuse — “an overburdened justice system, a strained health care system, lost productivity, and environmental destruction” — cost the United States $215 billion a year.

[Rag Blog contributor Ted McLaughlin also posts at jobsanger.]

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Tom Miller : On Reading Cervantes Aloud in Madrid

Cartoon by Juan Carlos Pedreira Fernández / Galería Cubarte.

‘En un lugar de la Mancha…’
On reading Cervantes aloud in Madrid

By Tom Miller / The Rag Blog / May 14, 2010

All together now: “En un lugar de la Mancha, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme, no ha mucho tiempo que vivía un hidalgo de los de lanza en astillero, adarga antigua, rocín flaco y galgo corredor.”

If you don’t recognize those 33 words, go to the back of the class. The rest of you can identify the opening line from Don Quixote de la Mancha, the world’s best-loved and most translated novel. Since its initial publication in the early 17th century (in two parts; 1605 and 1615) the Quixote has been considered the first modern novel and its author Miguel de Cervantes has come to symbolize the Spanish language. If you grew up in a Spanish-speaking country you likely can recite those words in your sleep.

Ground zero for Cervantes, of course, is Madrid, where he lived off and on, and died April 23, 1616. William Shakespeare, who symbolized another language, died April 23, 1616 as well. In those days Spain followed one calendar while England used another, so although Miguel de Cervantes’ and William Shakespeare died the same date, they did not die the same day. (Or, as I explain to friends in Tucson, one followed the calendar from El Charro, and the other, from Mi Nidito.)

April 23 has evolved into El Día del Libro in Spain, a very literary day on which the King awards the annual Cervantes Prize for outstanding work in the Spanish language, and kiosks and big displays of books line the streets of Madrid, Barcelona, and elsewhere. (In Barcelona, it’s also Sant Jordi day, which, in addition to celebrating books, includes giving a rose to a lover or someone you’d like to be a lover. Books and lovers; I ask you, could there be a more fertile combination?)

Madrid’s main activity takes place in the Circulo be Bellas Artes (CBA), a huge building on a broad mid-town boulevard with galleries, rooms for workshops, theater, meetings, and exhibits, as well as a nicely stocked bookstore named for the poet Antonio Machado. And it’s here every year that the Lectura Continuada, the marathon reading, of the thousand-page Don Quixote takes place.

The first reader, always, is the winner of the Cervantes Prize, in this case, the Mexican poet José Emilio Pacheco. He’s followed by politicos, actors, high-ranking cultural bureaucrats, and the like. Each reader gets a paragraph or two at most. The CBA has a high-tech approach to the Quixote, and arranged for teleconferencing from readers in cities throughout Africa, the Americas, and Asia. And, it was web-streamed, so from whatever distance, if you cranked up your computer during the marathon, you could have heard more than a thousand readers, including… me.

A month earlier I made an international call to the phone number listed on the CBA web site, but the nine-hour time difference made that window of opportunity difficult to jump through. So shortly after I arrived in Spain I went to the CBA building and found the registration table. “When would like to read?” a woman asked ingenuously. “We have a lot of openings at this point.” I chose 6 p.m. the first day simply out of convenience. Because of the ebb and flow, you never knew your precise passage until 30 seconds before you read. For those of us for whom os and vuestra are not part of our normal Spanish, this could be a bit intimidating.

Except for the stage, the main room was always dark so the whole process could be video’d. A big screen showed clips from the many film versions of Don Quixote. Great stuff! And you deaf readers, imagine Don Quixote in sign language! These signers were as much actors as translators, taking on the roles of el Quixote and Sancho Panza and the whole cast of characters. To add to the literary carnival a few excerpts were acted out by local theater groups.

The process ran smoothly. Like every other reader, I checked in at a table outside the main room at my appointed time and got a ticket. I was then directed to a line on the side of the auditorium, where, when I reached the front, someone verified my name with a list. While the person three ahead of me was reading out loud from the podium, the fellow two ahead of me was sitting with the ringmistress, as I called her, following the passage on stage so he’d know where his own segment began, while the chica directly in front of me was at the front table on stage signing paperwork.

At one point I got the nod and proceeded to the front table where I signed my name and gave my employment (“¿A que te dedicas?” the fellow whispered.) A minute later I moved up to the second-to-top rung, sitting next to the ringmistress following along with the reader before me.

The previous weekend I spent in Argamasilla de Alba, a small village in La Mancha that Cervantes was known to have visited and said to have been imprisoned in for a spell. Unbeknownst to me A de A was having its own Lectura Continuada, and the cervantistas invited me to take part. The town was so small they only had enough people to read the novel’s first part, and for that students from local public schools took turns. Unlike in Madrid, these people could show me my section ahead of time. I found it in the English translation always by my side, and eventually was called to the stage which really wasn’t a stage, more like a table covered by a big cloth in the front of a big room.

I said, “Para mostrar el alcance internacional de Cervantes y el Quixote, voy a leer mi fragmento en otro idioma.” (One should never be too far from one’s own copy of el Quixote.) And with that, I read the occasionally testy conversation in Part One, chapter twelve, between Don Quixote the shepherd Pedro about the late student — shepherd Grisótomo.

The ringmistress in Madrid nodded me over to the chair next to hers as the previous participant stood at the lectern. We followed the passage being read on a large-type edition — the exact same edition on the lectern. After just a few sentences from the reader right before me, the ringmistress said “Gracias,” and motioned me up. Her “Gracias” was sort of like the hook of an exceptionally bad performance, except in this case it was simply used to hurry the reading along. Move along little dogies.

I was temporarily disoriented and the ringmistress had to walk over to point out where I should start. The sign language translator, with whom I’d been chatting in the lobby, gave me a supportive smile. We were in Part One, chapter 21, when the good don and Sancho are having one of their near-quarrels. In all I read 77 words. As I left the stage there was the obligatory smattering of applause that followed every reader.

Afterward I stood by myself in the back listening to the readers who followed me. One of them, a South American, came up, and in a low voice, said: “Your accent. Are you from Germany?”

[Tom Miller’s most recent book is Revenge of the Saguaro: Offbeat Travels Through America’s Southwest. He is working on Don Quixote’s Trail — Through the Wilds and Windmills of the World’s Best Loved Novel. His web site is www.tommillerbooks.com.]

Also see:

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Dick J. Reavis : The Genealogy of Bill White

A Bill White ancestor making his way to Texas? Photo by Texas cowboy photographer Erwin E. Smith.

¿Quién es más Texan?
Genealogy, politics, and Bill White

By Dick J. Reavis / The Rag Blog / May 14, 2010

Democratic candidate Bill White’s great, great, great, great grandparents came to Texas in 1850. That’s the upshot of the headline — or propaganda — in a four-page, slick advertising insert that fell out of my copy of the Amarillo News-Globe on Thursday.

I’m no genealogist, and it took me awhile to deconstruct all of that.

White’s advertising supplement is probably an attempt to persuade voters that he’s at least as Texan as Ricky Perry, the descendant of at least one Texan who served in the Confederate Army.

But White’s claim, or attempt, is risible on at least one level. If my calculations are correct, White’s family tree includes 32 great, great, great, great grandparents. If two of them came to Texas in 1850, what about the other 30? His roots circular may be an appeal from genealogy, but it presents a very edited genealogy. Maybe the rest of his ancestors were Red Russians?

The insert will in any case be viewed in some quarters as an oddity. We’ve seen nothing like it in national politics: did John Kerry advertise that he’s the many, many great grandson of Mayflower passengers? Does Barack Obama claim descent from Kenyan royalty? White, in authorizing the insert, is, if nothing else, guilty of what the “cosmopolitans” call “provincialism.”

If genealogists dig into the facts that underlie the White bulletin, they may be able to determine whether he — or Perry’s — ancestors owned slaves, because that might be of interest to African-American voters. But I doubt that it will become an issue, because not many people in Texas believe that the regional, national, or class origins of anyone’s great, great, great, great, great grandparents are important today.

The real point of the roots circular is revealed by the text and sepia-toned photos of its interior pages. White may be a Houston urbanite — everybody knows that — but his ancestry, according to the insert’s interior photos and captions, includes Texans who lived in Corsicana, Jones, and Caldwell counties, Corpus Christi, Sinton, and San Antonio. Counting back the generations lets him establish a statewide, even rural and small-town identity.

Rick Perry does something like that by proclaiming that he was born in the hamlet of Paint Creek, which according to the Handbook of Texas, “In the late 1980s … had [a] school, two churches, several houses, a football field, and a covered barn in which the school buses were parked.”

Winning the support of rural voters is still helpful, it seems, in gubernatorial races and maybe in other Texas political contest. But it is not necessarily important to the journalists who cover those races, or at least that’s what owners and editors of Texas newspapers and magazines, most of which are headed by non-Texans, seem to believe.

No gubernatorial candidate has presented himself as qualified for office because he is a native of New York and a graduate of Ivy League writing programs or political science academies, apparently because such standards are only relevant to politics. Journalism, on the other hand, is a technical or scientific skill in which the successful practitioner may hail from any regional or national background, and needs no rapport with voters.

Perhaps I am alone, but I see a problem in the lack of an analogy there. Those people whom we refer to as “the voters” are in the journalistic world known as “the readers,” the people who, at least in theory, ultimately determine whether a publication lives or dies.

And if politicians have a less respectable job, spouting words, oozing empathy, winning hearts and minds, and assailing local corruption — well, of course, journalists have nothing to do with an undertaking like that!

[A native Texan, Dick J. Reavis is an award-winning journalist, educator, and author who teaches journalism at North Carolina State University. He is a former staffer at the Moore County News, The Texas Observer, Texas Monthly, the San Antonio Light, the Dallas Observer, Texas Parks & Wildlife Magazine, the Fort Worth Star-Telegram and the San Antonio Express-News. He also wrote for The Rag in Austin in the Sixties. His latest book is Catching Out: The Secret World of Day Laborers.]

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Jena, Louisiana : Drug Bust or Racist Revenge?

Sheriff Scott Franklin, shown reveling in loot obtained during a controversial drug raid last summer in Jena, Louisiana. Photo special to The Rag Blog.

Revenge for civil rights protests?
‘Operation Third Option’ in Jena

By Jordan Flaherty / The Rag Blog / May 14, 2010

Award-winning journalist and author Jordan Flaherty will be Thorne Dreyer’s guest on Rag Radio, Tuesday, May 18, 2-3 p.m. (CST) on KOOP 91.7 FM in Austin. For those outside the listening area, go here to stream the show.

They will discuss Flaherty’s post-Katrina writings, his reporting about the Jena Six incidents and their aftermath, and about harassment of minorities, transgenders, sex workers, and others in New Orleans and in Louisiana — and about the positive community organizing that has occurred in response to this harassment.

At 4 a.m. on July 9 of last year, more than 150 officers from 10 different agencies gathered in a large barn just outside Jena, Louisiana. The day was the culmination of an investigation that Sheriff Scott Franklin said had been going on for nearly two years. Local media was invited, and a video of the Sheriff speaking to the rowdy gathering would later appear online.

The Sheriff called the mobilization “Operation Third Option,” and he said it was about fighting drugs. However, community members say that Sheriff Franklin’s actions are part of an orchestrated revenge for the local civil rights protests that won freedom for six Black high school students — known internationally as the Jena Six — who had been charged with attempted murder for a school fight.

One thing is clear: the Sheriff spent massive resources; yet officers seized no contraband. Together with District Attorney Reed Walters, Sheriff Franklin has said he is seeking maximum penalties for people charged with small-time offenses. Further, in a parish that is 85 percent white, his actions have almost exclusively targeted African Americans.

Sheriff Scott Franklin of Jena says he is trying to rid his community of drugs. Critics say he is pursuing revenge against the town’s Black community.

Downtown Baghdad

According to a report from Alexandria’s Town Talk newspaper, LaSalle Parish Sheriff Scott Franklin prepared the assembled crowd for a violent day. “This is serious business what we’re fixing to do,” said Sheriff Franklin. “If you think this is a training exercise or if you think these are good old boys from redneck country and we’re just going to good-old-boy them into handcuffs, you’re wrong. These people have nothing to lose. And they know the stakes are high.”

“It’s going to be like Baghdad out in this community at 5 a.m.,” he continued dramatically, explaining that their target was 37-year-old Darren DeWayne Brown, who owns a barbershop — one of the only Black-owned businesses in town — and his “lieutenants,” who Franklin said supplied 80 percent of the narcotics for three parishes. “Let me put it to you this way,” declared the Sheriff, “When the man says, ‘We don’t sell dope today,’ dope won’t get sold.”

Sheriff Franklin said that option one is for drug dealers and users to quit, option two is to move, and option three is to spend the rest of their lives in prison. And this day was all about option three. “They will get put in handcuffs, put behind bars today and never see the light of day again unless they are going out on the playground in prison,” he boasted.

At the end of the day, a dozen people were arrested on charges that ranged from contempt of court to distribution of marijuana, hydrocodone, or cocaine. Despite catching the accused residents by surprise with early morning raids, in which doors were battered down by SWAT teams while a helicopter hovered overhead and then search teams were brought in to take houses and businesses apart, no drugs or other physical evidence was retrieved.

All evidence in the cases comes from the testimony of 23-year-old Evan Brown of Jena, who also wore a hidden camera during the investigation that parish officials have said provides powerful visual evidence. “We’re completely satisfied with the results,” said LaSalle Sheriff’s Department Narcotic Chief Robert Terral, who refused further comment on the operation.

Lasalle Parish is a politically conservative enclave located in northwest Louisiana. Former Klansman David Duke received a solid majority of local votes when he ran for governor in 1991 — in fact, he received a higher percentage of votes in LaSalle Parish than in any other part of the state.

The Parish became famous in 2007 for the case of the Jena Six. In demonstrations that were called the birth of a 21st Century civil rights movement, an estimated 50,000 people marched in Jena. They were protesting a pattern of systemic racism and discriminatory prosecutions. All six youths, who once faced life in prison, are now either enrolled in college or are on their way.

The Sheriff told the Jena Times that he began preparing for Operation Third Option in November of 2007, less than two months after the historic protests.

Caseptla Bailey (left) and Catrina Wallace were active in the campaign to support the Jena 6. Their door was broken down by police while they slept. Photo by Jordan Flaherty / The Rag Blog.

A terrifying morning

Catrina Wallace, 29, was sleeping in her bed with her youngest child when her door was broken down and she awoke to the feeling of a gun to her head. When she opened her eyes, her small home was filled with police. “I never seen that many police at one time,” she recalled. “Everywhere I looked all I saw was police. There were six or seven just in my bedroom.” She says police pointed guns at her small children and wouldn’t let her comfort them.

Catrina Wallace is the sister of Robert Bailey, one of the Jena Six. Along with her mother, Caseptla Bailey, she was one of the leaders of the campaign to free the accused youths, and she organized meetings and protests for months. Wallace says her political activism made her a target. “I’m a freedom fighter,” she says. “I fight for peoples’ rights. I’ve never been in trouble.”

As with every other house raided that day, the police found no drugs in Wallace’s home. According to Wallace, police initially claimed they found marijuana on her kitchen table, but later discovered that they had collected broccoli stems, left over from dinner the previous night.

Despite the lack of evidence, and the fact that she has lived her whole life in Jena and is raising three small children, she was held for a $150,000 cash-only bond. Her car, a 1999 Mitsubishi Gallant, was also seized by police, who continue to hold it in an impound lot. If she wants it back, Catrina will have to pay $12 a day to the lot for every day since it was seized, in July of last year — an amount already larger than the value of the car.

Tasered and traumatized

Samuel Howard was sleeping in his bed, naked, when police broke down his door at 5 a.m. Howard says police tasered him three times, twice in the back and once in his arm, and pointed guns at his three kids. They took him out of his house still naked, and brought him to a baseball field, along with the other arrestees from that day. There he says he spent another hour without any clothes, standing with the other arrestees, until police brought him an orange jailhouse jumper.

“They treated us like we was hard core killers,” says Howard, who says that in a small town like Jena where everyone knows each other, such violent tactics are uncalled for. “The sheriff knows me,” he says. “We went to school together. He knows I’m not a violent person.”

Howard is being charged with three counts of distribution of cocaine. His trial is scheduled for May 24 (Catrina Wallace’s is scheduled for the same week). As with the other defendants, the only evidence against him is the testimony and video from the police informant. Howard, who has seen the evidence, says he is not implicated in the video.

His home was badly burned up that day, apparently from flares that police fired inside, and his windows were all destroyed. Howard, who does some auto repair work, says his four vehicles — including two older cars that don’t run — were also seized by police.

Racially motivated

Many of Jena’s Black residents say that the town’s white power structure — including the DA, Sheriff, and the editor of the local paper — wants revenge against Black people in town who stood up and fought against unjust charges. They complain that in a town that is mostly white, all but two of the people arrested were Black, and the only arrestees pictured in the town’s paper were Black. The sheriff “Just wants to humiliate people,” says Caseptla Bailey, Wallace’s mother, “Especially the African Americans.” The editor and publisher of the Jena Times, the town’s only paper, is Sammy Franklin, who has owned the paper since 1968. His son is Sheriff Scott Franklin.

A white-owned store around the corner from the courthouse in downtown Jena sells t-shirts commemorating Operation Third Option, with a design of a person behind bars. Black residents of Jena say that an earlier version of the shirt featured a monkey behind bars. They say that white residents of Jena have gloated about the arrests.

Four of those arrested on that day have pled guilty. Chelsea Brown, who was arrested for contempt of court, received a sentence of 25 days. Devin Lofton, who pled guilty to conspiracy to distribute, received 10 years. Adrian Richardson, 34, who pled guilty on April 23 to two counts of distribution, received 25 years. Termaine Lee, a 22-year-old who had no previous record but faced six counts of distribution, received 20 years.

Some of the accused have hired attorneys, while others have had public defenders appointed. However, all involved say they doubt they can receive a fair trial in LaSalle. They say that white defendants with similar or worse charges received lower bonds, and face lesser sentences. “It’s crooked,” says Howard. “They ain’t playing fair down here, that’s all.”

Marcus Jones, father of Mychal Bell, one of the Jena Six youths, doesn’t mince words. “This is racially motivated,” he says. “It’s revenge.” He says that the problem is that while the Jena Six youths were freed, there were no consequences for the Sheriff or DA. “Wouldn’t none of this be going on if justice had been done the way it was supposed to have been,” he says.

Jones was not among those arrested, but in a small town like Jena, he knows everyone involved. He says he was shocked at the resources the police brought in. “Why did you need helicopters and military weapons?” he asks. “I could see it if you were going to arrest Noriega or the Mafia, but these are people with kids in their homes. The Sheriff’s department never had any violent run-ins with any of these people.”

Jones believes the entire campaign by Sheriff Franklin has been a gesture of asserting control over the Black community, and he calls for a federal investigation of the Sheriff’s department and DA.

Samuel Howard says that now he mostly stays home with his three kids, ages 12, 14, and 15. He’s afraid of the Sheriff’s office arresting him if he leaves the house, and he wants to stay close to his kids, who were traumatized by his arrest. “It scared them to death,” he says. “They still talk about it to this day.”

“They know they’re wrong,” said Howard, referring to the Sheriff and DA, “You can’t tell me they don’t know.”

[Jordan Flaherty is a journalist, an editor of Left Turn Magazine, and a staffer with the Louisiana Justice Institute. He was the first writer to bring the story of the Jena Six to a national audience and audiences around the world have seen the television reports he’s produced for Al-Jazeera, TeleSur, GritTV, and Democracy Now. Haymarket Press will release his new book, FLOODLINES: Stories of Community and Resistance from Katrina to the Jena Six, this summer. He can be reached at neworleans@leftturn.org.]

Marcus Jones, Catrina Wallace, and others in Jena are available for interviews.


Representatives of the Jena, Louisiana, Sheriff’s Department arrest an unidentified suspect during drug raids July 9, 2009. Photo from the Jena Times.

A member of a white supremacist group marches in Jena, Louisiana, January 22, 2008. Photo by Jessica Rinaldi /Reuters.

Demonstrators march in support of the Jena Six, September 20, 2007. Photo from The Cheddar Box.

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Austin writer and activist Hamilton discusses the intrigues and idiosyncrasies of getting around in France. And he sees much to like in the French way of handling travel and transportation, though some of it is sure to confound the tourist. As a self-proclaimed Francophile, he likes the road system and approach to driving, as well as the creative use of alternatives to the automobile — like fast trains, public bicycle installations, and, hey, just plain walking.

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Amy Goodman : In Praise of Lena Horne

Singer, actress, and civil rights activist Lena Horne died this week at 92. Photo by Cinetext / Sportsphoto Ltd / Allstar.

She fought segregation, McCarthyism:
Singing Lena Horne’s praises

By Amy Goodman / May 13, 2010

‘Mississippi wanted its movies without me. It was an accepted fact that any scene I did was going to be cut when the movie played the South.’ — Lena Horne

Lena Horne died this week at the age of 92. More than just a brilliant singer and actress, she was a pioneering civil rights activist, breaking racial barriers for generations of African-Americans who have followed her. She fought segregation and McCarthyism, was blacklisted, yet persisted to gain worldwide fame and success. Her grandmother signed her up as the youngest member of the NAACP as a 14-month-old.

Hers is the story of the 20th century, of the slow march to racial equality, and of remarkable perseverance.

Horne’s career began in Harlem’s renowned Cotton Club, where African-Americans performed for an exclusively white audience. She joined several orchestras, including one of the first integrated bands, and then landed the first meaningful, long-term contract for an African-American actor with a major Hollywood film studio, MGM. Her contract included provisions that she would not be cast in the stereotypical role of a maid. She was never given full acting roles, though, only stand-alone singing scenes.

“I looked good and I stood up against a wall and sang and sang. But I had no relationship with anybody else,” she told The New York Times in 1957. “Mississippi wanted its movies without me. It was an accepted fact that any scene I did was going to be cut when the movie played the South.”

During the World War II years, she toured with the USO, entertaining troops. At Camp Joseph T. Robinson in Arkansas, she learned she would be performing for a segregated whites-only audience. Afterward, she gave an impromptu performance for the African-American troops and was again angered when German POWs imprisoned at the base were allowed to crowd into the mess hall. She insisted they be thrown out.

Horne, in a 1966 Pacifica Radio interview, recalled a watershed moment in Cincinnati. She was touring with a band, and on the night of the boxing match between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling of Nazi Germany, Horne, who didn’t care for boxing, found herself backstage with the band members, around the radio, rooting for Louis:

I said, ‘He’s mine.’ And I didn’t want him to be beaten. ‘He’s ours.’ I think that’s the first I remember ever identifying with another Negro in that way before. I was identifying with the symbol that we had, of a powerful man, an impregnable fortress. And I didn’t realize that we drew strength from these symbols.

Paul Robeson, the great African-American singer and activist, had a profound influence on Lena Horne. In the Pacifica interview, she recalled,

Paul taught me about being proud because I was Negro… he sat down for hours, and he told me about Negro people… And he didn’t talk to me as a symbol of a pretty Negro chick singing in a club. He talked to me about my heritage. And that’s why I always loved him.

The association with Robeson, a proud, outspoken activist, contributed to Horne’s blacklisting during the McCarthy era.

James Gavin, who wrote the definitive biography of Lena Horne, Stormy Weather, told me:

Lena Horne was a very brave woman and is not given credit for the activism that she did in the 1940s, at a time when a lot of the black performers that she knew were simply accepting the conditions of the day as the way things were and were afraid of rocking the boat and losing their jobs. And Lena never hesitated to speak her mind.

Gavin described Horne’s appearance at the 1963 March on Washington, where she took the microphone and unleashed one word, “Freedom!” She appeared with the great civil rights leader Medgar Evers at an NAACP rally, just days before he was assassinated. She worked with Eleanor Roosevelt on anti-lynching legislation, and supported SNCC, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, and the National Council of Negro Women (led by Dorothy Height, another civil rights leader, who died last month at the age of 98).

Horne’s biographer Gavin says she was filled with anguish for not doing enough. But Halle Berry thinks otherwise. When Berry became the first African-American woman to win the Academy Award for best actress in 2001, she sobbed as she held up her Oscar in her acceptance speech:

This moment is so much bigger than me. This moment is for Dorothy Dandridge, Lena Horne, Diahann Carroll. … And it’s for every nameless, faceless woman of color that now has a chance because this door tonight has been opened.”

Denis Moynihan contributed research to this column.

© 2010 Amy Goodman

[Amy Goodman is the host of Democracy Now!, a daily international TV/radio news hour airing on 800 stations in North America. She was awarded the 2008 Right Livelihood Award, dubbed the “Alternative Nobel” prize, and received the award in the Swedish Parliament in December.]

Source / TruthDig.com / CommonDreams.

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David P. Hamilton : On the Road in France

French road sign warns of curves ahead. Photo from photoguide.cz.

On the road in France:
A different approach to getting around

…you will often find yourself passing through villages where the road shrinks to one lane to be shared with pedestrians, bicycles, dogs, restaurant sign boards, and oncoming traffic.

By David P. Hamilton / The Rag Blog / May 12, 2010

[This article was written in consultation with Chris Dobbs, American expatriate artist living in Lyon, France.]

PARIS — When making comparisons between France and the United States, I typically favor France, but not always. France has no Grand Canyon or redwoods. No buffalo or buzzards. The French make a virtue out of force feeding geese, love nuclear power, eat horses, smoke cigarettes too much and pot not enough. Other exceptions escape me.

I was first infected with Francophilia thanks to the U.S. Army, which in 1964 very kindly sent me to France rather than Vietnam. Two months before the Gulf of Tonkin incident, which signaled the beginning of the U.S. assumption of the principal fighting role in Vietnam, I arrived at a major headquarters unit in Orleans, France, to begin my career as an army clerical worker. It was a nice, clean job in a non-combat zone, the very definition of soft duty. Although unaware at the time, I had lucked out beyond my wildest dreams.

Orleans is just upstream from the famed chateau region of the Loire Valley and an hour south of Paris. Although I complained about it for the next two and a half years, it beat being anywhere near Vietnam, or Germany for that matter, by considerably more than a country mile. Only much later did I realize it was a seminal time for me.

Besides our regular army jobs, we were required to do extra duty about once a week, usually struggling to stay awake while “guarding” some empty office building through the night. I volunteered to be a “duty driver” instead. This only meant that I might have to wake up in the middle of the night to drive some drunk lieutenant home from the officer’s club. It was my first experience driving in France.

I have since driven through France several times and have concluded that there are several features of the French road system that are clearly superior to that in the U.S. — and a couple that are not. Although the French are not typically defensive drivers, France has about 40% fewer traffic fatalities per capita than the U.S.

Clearly, they have something positive going for them in this sphere. It is not that they are better drivers or have safer cars. More likely this commendable safety record is due to the traffic system design. American expatriate friends who have lived in France for many years say that it is also due to a cultural undercurrent of patience and civility.

This latter opinion flies in the face of the common American stereotype that the French are rude. I believe this stereotype is pure crap. France is the world’s most popular tourist attraction and an important component of that is its citizens being gracious hosts. I’ve seen Americans in France berating waiters for not speaking English far more often than French waiters being rude to American customers.

Virtually every day French people volunteer to speak their limited English to me even though I’m in their country and speak rudimentary French. Americans who say the French are rude are almost invariably bigoted chauvinists who have never been here. If they have, they probably came on a guided tour with preconceived prejudices and lacked the willingness or ability to speak a word of French. Try to imagine a Frenchman at Denny’s insisting on a French-speaking waiter. Yet that’s the kind of expectation such Americans have.

View of traffic circle below the Arc-de-Triomphe. Photo from travelpod.com.

The most noticeable difference in the road system is traffic circles. They are rare in the U.S. but very common in France, especially outside city centers. They replace stop signs and red lights and keep traffic continuously moving. On entering them, you must yield to cars already on them, but usually everything just keeps flowing. One can pass through even medium sized towns without ever stopping, having gone through several circles in the process.

Each circle has clearly marked directional options, both road numbers and towns to be found in the direction indicated. You just need to know the next major town in the direction you want to go and it will appear on a sign pointing to the correct road. If you are uncertain where you’re going, you can keep circling until you decide. French drivers, however, are quick to observe this indecisiveness and may honk, gesture and mouth unintelligible remarks. This is especially true if you have an Avis sticker on your back window.

To the American driver, the main negative feature of these circles is that they have two lanes going around them and often two lanes entering them. This sometimes calls for a certain amount of maneuvering. The maneuver where a car on the inside (left) lane of the circle suddenly realizes it is time to exit right is troublesome to Americans used to precise rules of the road.

To the French, however, it is an event that calls forth the efficacious driving principle in which rigid rules that breed complacency and displace personal responsibility to external institutions are replaced by individual initiative and mutual negotiations. This mix of freedom, caution, and cooperation enables traffic circles to work well.

The French readiness to communicate with other drivers is subtly different from that which typically takes place in the U.S. In the U.S, most people are reticent to express their displeasure with other drivers because the recipient of their remarks may be heavily armed and have an easily offended masculinity. This potential for serious road rage is practically non-existent in France.

For the French — not having the God-given right to possess deadly force at all times — expressing such displeasure isn’t all that risky, so people feel more free to indulge. But these exchanges are a kind of banter with a core of politeness or at least civility. The French have even been known to apologize. If you think they’re saying something nasty, it’s probably because you’re paranoid and don’t understand idiomatic French.

The signage on French roads, unlike that in the U.S., utilizes international symbols. It is in most respects better, at least insofar as telling you where you are going. The signs can, however, be ambiguous, especially for someone unaccustomed to the international signage and who doesn’t read French. It helps to have a navigator with a translation dictionary. Another complication is that the numbers used refer to the metric system. Of course, anyone familiar with both the metric system and the confusing jumble of measurements we use in the U.S. will attest to the superiority and greater simplicity of the former. But it does take getting used to.

The directional signs at traffic circles allow you to travel across France, even on back roads, if you know the next major town along the way to your destination, referring to maps only occasionally to determine the towns along your route. If the town you’re looking for is not found on the signs, there will be one saying “toutes directions” or “autres directions.” Follow those until you arrive at a circle with a sign pointing to the place you want to go. It almost always works

French road signs on the side of a house. Photo from photoguide.cz.

Another feature of French signs that Americans may find bothersome is that they never refer to cardinal directions. There is no highway D15 east and D15 west; only D15. This may be due to D15 winding in several directions as it circumvents some town. We carry a compass.

Another clearly superior feature of the French road system is that large trucks are always obliged to go slower than cars, in some cases much slower. On super highways outside cities cars can go up to130km per hour while trucks are limited to 90. This confines trucks to the right hand lane. It also allows tourists who don’t know where they are going to nestle among them until they figure it out.

On smaller departmental roads, the difference is usually 90 and 80. The maximum speed a truck may go is shown by numbers on its back door. Imagine I-35 in Austin with no semis blazing along at 80mph. And due to reliance on a much better developed rail system for the movement of goods, there are many fewer trucks to deal with.

On French roads the speed limits change automatically when it rains. On super highways, it drops from 130kph to 110 for cars and 90 to 80 for trucks. Corresponding changes are required on smaller roads. Although I’ve never seen it, I have heard that this exists in the U.S., but varies from place to place and is poorly enforced.

However, speed limits are seldom posted on secondary roads except to slow you down when passing through towns. The maximum speeds are uniform for all roads of a certain type and you’re supposed to know what they are without being told. On a D (departmental) road, it’s 90kph on dry roads, dropping to 80 if it’s raining. But no sign will remind you of this.

Traffic scene. Photo by nealiousq1 / webshots.

If you learned to drive in France, you were required to know maximum speeds for different types of roads under different conditions. Tourists have to figure it out by other means and it’s best to do so quickly because French police, when they make one of their rare appearances on highways, will give you a ticket for the slightest transgression of the prescribed limit.

Another outstanding feature is the “passage.” These are pedestrian cross walks, a series of white rectangles painted across streets in urban areas. They are very common, not only at corners, and vehicles must stop for pedestrians who are in them. They often do so even for pedestrians near one, when they even look like they might be thinking about crossing. This is especially true for anyone using a cane or pushing a baby carriage.

These events must be anticipated. The question often arises as to who got there first, but the pedestrian has the priority in this game. The driver behind a driver who is about to brake for a pedestrian also must be prepared to act suddenly. Strolling tourists not from California are often timorous about exerting this right, but the French seem to feel confident hurling themselves into the “passage ” without looking or breaking stride.

Another very positive feature of transportation in France is that there are so many alternatives to cars. Towns are more compact and many people actually walk to do daily errands. This contrasts sharply with the U.S., where the invariable first act upon leaving one’s house is to get into one’s car. The arrangement of our urban geography is predicated on the
assumption of individual car use.

Imagine no cars. For many French it isn’t hard to do. Living in compact towns and cities laid out long before the advent of cars, they can walk to nearby stores for all their needs. This has added benefits in terms of reducing pollution, promoting health, and maintaining small enterprises and social integration.

There are many more bicyclists in France, some doing mundane tasks and others out getting exercise. Many older men seem to be preparing for another run at the Tour de France. Bicycles rarely have special lanes and you are actually expected to defer to them.

A pair of French landmarks.

Besides these alternatives to driving, France has a vastly better developed system of public transportation. The train system, owned by the government, is especially good. Trains go to even very small towns. We stayed in a town of no more than two thousand, but it had frequent train service to the nearest city and from there to the entire country.

Given the paucity of train service in the U.S., killed off early in the 20th century by car manufacturers and oil companies, I would speculate that the French ride trains a thousand times more per capita than Americans. The trains that run between major cities are now all TGV’s, high speed trains that run close to 200mph. Paris to Marsailles can be as little as a few hours. As the train stations are near the city centers, trains are typically quicker from home to ultimate destination than if you flew.

In Paris especially, few people get around by car. It’s not practical. There isn’t room for them, especially parking places, and municipal authorities look down on their use. This attitude is the opposite of what you find in the U.S, where space for cars is sacrosanct.

In urban France, parking garages are kept out of sight; they are underground and tourists are reluctant to drive down the dark holes leading to them. If you can by some miracle find an above ground parking spot, be ready to spend real money to rent it. There won’t be a parking meter for each space, but on the coveted site “payant” will be written. This means you must find the nearby machine dispensing permits, insert the correct change, take the paper permit it gives you indicating how long you have, and put it in a clearly visible place on your dashboard. This may run you a couple of euro an hour with a two hour limit.

If you get a parking ticket and ignore it, you will get a large bill in the mail, even in the US. If you ignore that too, good luck renting a car next time you come to Europe.

Alternatives to using a car in Paris or within other French cities are many. Besides walking and personal bikes, there is an extensive and well organized metro system that is directly connected to a regional train system that takes you far out into the suburbs. There is an even more extensive bus system that uses the same tickets as the metro and provides you with a view, but moves more slowly. For still more leisurely albeit costly transportation there is the “batobus,” a large public boat covered with clear plastic canopies that runs up and down the Seine through scenic central Paris.

Public bicycle installation. Photo by Graham Coreil-Allen / GPS.

The latest transportation innovation is the public bicycles that can be found at installations all over Paris. You simply put a credit card into the machine found at each bike station as a deposit to get into the system. Then you can take out a bike for 30 minutes free and for very little thereafter, leaving it at any other bike station in the city. These are three speed bikes, but most of Paris is pretty flat.

By these and other means, such as reducing the number of parking spots and lanes for cars, the municipal government is openly and successfully reducing car use within the city.

The result of all these alternatives is that for urban dwellers cars are secondary transportation, a luxury used for special occasions. In contrast, life in the U.S. has been organized in such a way as to make car ownership an absolute necessity, the primary if not the only form of transportation.

But what about the negative features of driving in France? There are only a couple that seriously bother me. One is that they don’t tell you how much to slow down for corners on rural roads. You’ll be on a D (departmental) road where the top speed limit is 90kph and approaching a curve. Nothing says to slow down. There may be blue and silver chevrons pointing in the direction of the curve to warn you, but no sign advises you about the safe speed.

This reflects a gymkhana mentality. You clearly can’t make that corner at 90kph unless you’re a professional race car driver in a formula one vehicle. How fast you can actually do it depends on your car, skill, and nerve. A similar system in the U.S. would produce an epidemic of rollovers. In France, it’s a matter of personal responsibility.

Another major problem on French roads is motorcycles. The rules that apply to cars don’t seem to apply to them. They totally ignore the speed limits, pass at any time and anywhere, park arbitrarily, and often travel in packs that seem to be racing one another for high stakes. Like on California freeways, they drive down the stripes between car lanes at a very high rate of speed, flying by while you’re limited to stop and go.

The difference is that because of high gas prices there are exponentially more of them in France. If you suddenly change lanes without noticing their very rapid approach, bad news. A willingness to constantly risk death seems to be a basic qualification for motorcycle ownership. You would think that the French highway patrol would clamp down on this, but there are very few of them, a fact that has other advantages.

Holiday streetscape. Photo by Graham Coreil-Allen / GP.

The French have a different concept of social space that is much closer and includes the way they drive. Their houses and cars are generally smaller. They stand closer to talk to one another. And they are quite comfortable driving much closer to other cars. If you are a tourist trying to drive leisurely through the countryside, this means that one is very often two feet off your rear bumper and looking impatient. The solution is to merely pull over. On narrow roads, we do it every few kilometers.

This closeness includes the spatial geography of towns and cities. Virtually all of them came into existence centuries before cars and have not been significantly rebuilt to accommodate them. If you choose to get up close and personal with France by driving across it on secondary and tertiary roads, you will often find yourself passing through villages where the road shrinks to one lane to be shared with pedestrians, bicycles, dogs, restaurant sign boards, and oncoming traffic.

Cars belonging to visitors are often not allowed in these villages. You are required to park on the periphery and walk in. Signs confront you saying “interdit sauf riverains,” forbidden except for locals. Other signs inform you about who has the right of way when confronting oncoming traffic on a particularly narrow stretch. These places were not designed with cars in mind, and they now seem to make only minimal compromises. This contrasts sharply with the post-car lay out of American urban geography and our exaltation of the rights of these machines.

Vintage shot of Doubs, Miche (ca. 1930). Not built with cars in mind. Photo from photoguide.cz.

Finally, a major difference between driving in France and the U.S. is that it costs significantly more in France. These greater costs are a result of much higher gas prices due to taxes. Gas is now above $7 a gallon and there are also lots of tolls on superhighways outside cities. The French are OK with this because they understand that the money goes into the road system, just as they are OK with higher taxes in general because they get meaningful benefits for their tax money, not just transfer payments to corporations like in the US.

Given the other transportation options, driving long distances is seen as a luxury. Even the argument that you can pack a whole family in one car doesn’t hold water. The train guys, government employees, have thought of that and offer family based pricing. You can buy a Carte Enfant + card that gets you 50% off for that child and anyone who travels with him or her. Americans would puke at similar gas prices and tolls because they see “free” roads as a right and don’t take into account all the related costs.

If you think that the road system in the U.S. is the best in the world, you’re wrong. Having a passport to go with your driver’s license might enlighten you. But few American tourists venture out on French roads, especially the back roads. As a result, they miss many of the best sights.

There are many features of European roads that could be easily adopted that would save thousands of lives in the U.S. every year. Requiring large trucks to go significantly slower than cars and automatically reducing speed limits when it rains would cost practically nothing. But, these reforms are so very seldom discussed that few Americans are even aware of them.

The trucking industry and its corporate clients find improving your safety costly and inconvenient. In the U.S. where corporations rule, reducing traffic fatalities has little measurable impact on the only thing that really matters: the bottom line. Such concerns are therefore a very low priority.

Vastly expanding public transportation would shift the whole picture, saving thousands of lives, reducing oil consumption, and improving the environment. But expanding the public sphere is heresy in capitalist America, so don’t hold your breath for these obvious reforms to take place.

[David P. Hamilton is an Austin-based activist and writer.]

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Harvey Wasserman : The BP Dead Zone

Before the Spill: Gulf of Mexico, 2009, from Destin, Florida. Photo ©2009 Mark Meyer.

While our military rots in the wrong gulf:
BP blows an apocalyptic gusher

By Harvey Wasserman / The Rag Blog / May 12, 2010

See ‘Ripple in still water, ‘ haiku by Richard Lee, Below.

As you read this, the life of our bodies, nation, and planet is being blown out a corporate hole in the Gulf of Mexico and into a BP Dead Zone of no return.

The apocalyptic gusher of oily poison pouring into the waters that give us life can only be viewed — FELT — by each and every one of us as an on-going death by a thousand cuts with no end in sight.

Yet our government — allegedly the embodiment of our collective will to survive — has done NOTHING of significance to fight this mass murder. Not one meaningful thing.

As it did while New Orleans drowned downstream from a willfully neglected levee system, our most potentially effective counterforce dithers on the other side of the world, in the wrong Gulf.

We squander our treasure on the largest conglomeration of people and weapons the world has ever seen. It’s bloated with hardware designed specifically to destroy and kill. Hundreds of thousands of Americans sit on our dime in more than a hundred countries, rotting in the outposts of a bygone empire.

Why aren’t they in the Gulf of Mexico, fighting for our truest “national security”?

The depth and scope of this catastrophe is impossible to grasp because it is just beginning. The entire Gulf, the west coast of Florida, the Everglades, the east coast of Florida and all the way up, wherever the currents go… they are all at risk.

This is the most lethal single attack on the life of this nation since December 7, 1941. It is a time that will live only in infamy.

The moment it happened, a sane president, a functional government, a society worthy of survival, would have marshaled every mobile resource available and moved it down to the Gulf.

Except by hitting a nuclear power plant and rendering this all radioactive, no terrorist could dream of igniting the kind of havoc now destroying our most vital, precious and irreplaceable resources.

Our mass media should be filled with stirring images of a focused, determined President mobilizing all available assets to curb the damage. Instead, Barack Obama defends offshore drilling and endorses the resumption of whaling — if this underwater gusher actually leaves any alive. It is a suicidal tribute to the power of corporate ownership.

Instead of a seeing a Gulf population deputized and mobilized to fight for survival, we are subjected to a loathsome trio of corporate stooges — apparently named Larry, Curly and Moe — blaming each other for the catastrophe. They should all be clamped into orange jumpsuits and locked onto a clean-up vessel.

Thus far the only armies officially mobilized are of the corporate PR departments and ubiquitous lawyers savoring the gusher of billable hours sure to stretch through the decades.

Our collective non-response to this cataclysmic reality now includes the introduction of a pathetic “climate bill,” concocted by another woeful trio, in service to the very corporations that have brought us this lethal gusher.

This bill will do nothing to solve this particular problem. Nor will it address the root cause of our addiction to obsolete and suicidal fossil and nuclear fuels at a time when the clean, cheap renewable alternatives are readily available. It is, in short, Beyond Tragic.

Make no mistake: in our lifetime, the Gulf will not recover. Nor will our species.

There are no corners of the Earth that we can pollute without poisoning it all… and our own bodies. We cannot squander our resources on killing people on the other side of the Earth while leaving ourselves to be destroyed by the mayhem at home.

Either our species learns this lesson, and acts on it — NOW! — or we do not survive.

[Harvey Wasserman’s Solartopia! Our Green-Powered Earth, is at www.harveywasserman.com . He is senior advisor to Greenpeace USA and senior editor of www.freepress.org, where this was also published.]

Ripple in still water

Shrill baby shrill yells
drill baby drill but the spill
will kill babies kill

Richard Lee / The Rag Blog

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Your Good Vibes Are Needed:
Freedom Fighter Marilyn Buck Fights
for Her Life Before August Release

By Mariann Wizard / The Rag Blog / May 12, 2010

AUSTIN, Texas — As I write this, a member of the original Rag family needs our help, and, unprecedented in her tumultuous life, has asked for it. To me, if we ever had a true obligation to respond to such a plea; if our honor as self-proclaimed radicals ever depended on it, this is the one. But then again, Marilyn Buck (http://ragauthorspage.blogspot.com/2007/12/marilyn-buck.html) is a sister of my heart.

We’ve been friends since 1966, a world ago. A political prisoner since 1985, she was a fugitive for eight years before that, living a life with which I had no contact. Since her recapture, our friendship has been expressed in all too few visits, many letters, phone calls, books shared, and poems critiqued. But before that, there were her fabulous boots, Students for a Democratic Society, my husband George Vizard, our well-meant matchmaking, George’s death, GI organizing, hippie dancing, every visit I ever made to San Francisco, and unconditional love.

For all its state-imposed limits, Marilyn is one of my closest and dearest friends, one of those, for me, of whom The Who sang, “You can count ’em on your one hand.” I mention this only to let you know up front that mine is not an unbiased report. But don’t get me wrong — ours is not an exclusive friendship; on the contrary, there are hundreds of people around the world who love her as much as I do. She has earned every bit of their affection.

Not a few of our letters and phone calls concern political matters; Marilyn is a prodigious reader and organizer, and seldom misses a bet to connect people with causes that will interest them, or resources that will help forward a progressive — she would say “anti-imperialist” — vision. She has been a valued adviser to the Board of Directors of Youth Emergency Service, Inc. /The Phogg Phoundation for the Pursuit of Happiness (www.phoggphoundation.info) for years, bringing worthwhile non-profit organizations to our attention, always addressing the most relevant issues of the day.

Marilyn’s Episcopal minister father, Louis Buck, was legendary in Austin civil rights circles when I first got involved, as a college freshman, in 1965. I heard of Dr. Buck, and met him once or twice, before I ever met her. Marilyn had an upper-middle-class private school education, but crosses had been burned on the family lawn north of the University of Texas campus. Her father’s church defrocked him, and he became a veterinarian to support his family.

Early on Marilyn saw that racism was wrong, that she needed to oppose it, and that the establishment could not be counted upon to do the right thing. Ironically, her Dad sent her to college at the University of California at Berkeley to keep her away from the crazy radicals (SDS and others) at UT Austin. Smart as a whip and curious about everything, the innocent young lady who went to “Berzerkeley” soon discovered psychedelics, rock music, and “high society”.

Despite the protection the elder Bucks attempted to provide their cherished daughter, on the college campuses of 1965, there was no hiding place for anyone with a minimal curiosity about national and world affairs. But it was when she returned to Austin in 1966 that we “crazy radicals” met her. She and I, and George, became fast friends. We were fascinated with her West Coast sophistication; she with our close-knit radical community. It was in Austin that she joined SDS, worked on the original Rag, and met a national SDS organizer on his way out of town. She went with him.

In Chicago, she worked in the SDS National Office and edited New Left Notes, the group’s national news organ, then returned by herself to the Bay Area, with a sharply-honed anti-imperialist outlook.

There she worked with Third World Newsreel — this was back when video cameras weighed 30-plus pounds and needed two people to operate, running in tandem through the tear gas-choked streets, taping demonstrations as the San Francisco Tac Squad closed in! — and soon met and became friends with members of Bay Area Black liberation groups.

Now, if you really don’t know who this woman is, that’s still no reason for me to duplicate the “About Marilyn” link at Friends of Marilyn Buck (http://marilynbuck.com/about.html). There is a lot more to Marilyn’s story of activism, self-sacrifice, and achievement, but it is her story to tell, and she’s not yet able to tell it; perhaps not yet able to entirely see it. She is held in the belly of the beast.

After a 1973 arrest for buying two boxes of ammunition under a false name, she was sentenced to 15 years in federal prison. The real accusation was that a middle-class, educated white woman had acted as quartermaster for the Black Liberation Army, an off-shoot of the Black Panther Party. She was charged and convicted for the same reason that UC professor and Communist Angela Davis had been arrested: she helped arm Black people to defend themselves against racist police and white supremacist attacks.

After four years at Alderson Federal Women’s Prison, where she was such a model prisoner that she worked in the prison pharmacy, and after being denied parole for, I think, the third time, she was given a furlough to consult with her lawyers. She didn’t come back.

During the next few years Marilyn allegedly participated in the prison escape of BLA leader Assata Shakur and a bank robbery to assist the New Afrikan independence movement, and, with other white anti-imperialists, was complicit in a smoke-bombing of the U.S. Capitol, to protest our invasion of Grenada and the bombing of Lebanon by U.S. warships. After her capture in 1985, she and three women co-defendants took a plea to secure the release of another, a physician whose non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma had recurred in prison. She received a total sentence of 80 years.

Immediately after sentencing, she was taken to a new, maximum security total lock-down federal women’s prison at Marianna, FL. Eventually, legal appeals by her and other political prisoners at Marianna, and at a similar facility in Lexington, KY, forced closure of both prisons as embodying cruel and unusual punishment.

Marilyn embodies the old-school principle, “Don’t mourn, organize!” Ever since her first arrest, she has steadfastly resisted diverting “movement resources” to her defense or benefit. In her interactions, she directs attention away from her personal inconveniences as a high-security prisoner (she is considered a “terrorist” by the government) to social and political issues, or at least to the personal lives of her friends and correspondents, with whom she unfailingly empathizes even when pointing out that one is being ridiculous. Her character is like the finest steel; it resists corrosion, shakes off the grime of daily use, and shines. Her level-headedness alone is enough to make her a valued friend!

Despite her selflessness, an active support group has grown up with members all over the world, centered in San Francisco, across the Bay from Dublin Federal Correctional Center, where Marilyn was sent after Marianna FCI was closed. Repeated attempts to gain parole have been slapped down through the years, and even her most optimistic supporters feared that she could expect no quarter from the minions of the State. The once-privileged daughter of the white middle class has been upheld throughout her captivity by a multicultural, multi-gendered group of working class supporters, poets, former prisoners, prison reform activists and others, enabled to buy postage stamps, pre-paid phone minutes, paper and pens, and kept in books and periodicals (she’s a daily reader of the New York Times), allowing her to stay in contact with friends and kindred spirits, and with a changing world.

During those years, Marilyn has became an accomplished, highly-acclaimed poet and translator; developed a significant artistic talent as a sculptor; organized prisoners to raise funds for AIDS education through a pledge walk-a-thon; and taught untold hundreds of other women how to read, how to think things through, and how to survive and even transcend their sentences. She has mentored and inspired scores of poets inside and outside the walls.

Both of her parents passed away during her incarceration, and she could neither see them before their deaths nor attend their funeral services. There have been other serious personal hardships, but that was, I think, the most difficult to bear. Even the shock of the 9-11 terrorist attacks in 2000, when Marilyn – along with scores of other prisoners around the country in many facilities, completely uninvolved in the attacks – was suddenly removed from her cell and placed in total solitary confinement, without access even to her attorneys for many days, didn’t really compare with not being able to mourn her parents.

All along, her principled conduct has brought many new friends and supporters along with the old. She had a steady stream of visitors at Dublin FCI, including 60s radical icons and the now-grown children of friends and former neighbors. She corresponds with poets and artists around the world. Thirty or more poets participated in making Wild Poppies (2004, Freedom Archives, www.freedomarchives.org), a CD of her poems, including South Africa’s laureate of liberation, Dennis Brutus, and Amiri Baraka (formerly known as LeRoi Jones), who introduces the compilation.

Finally, a year ago, it looked as if the sun would shine for her once more. A new hearing brought a positive decision: she would be released on parole in August, 2010! Supporters in the Bay Area began to raise funds for her expected transition to circumscribed freedom.

Marilyn has made every effort to stay connected, despite her isolation behind razor wire and the censor’s hand. She had never, ever talked about what she would do when, or if, she was released; when you’re doing an 80-year sentence, you do it, as they say, “one day at a time”. Suddenly she was full of questions: “What kind of computer should I get at first, a laptop or a desk top?” (She’s never been in cyberspace; most prison inmates can’t go online. I told her to get a smart phone for the first 6 months; see if she even needs a computer!) She wasn’t convinced that digital cameras are as good as film; and said she might find work in a photography studio… I held my tongue. She was coming out; nothing else mattered. Whatever changes that had occurred but hadn’t occurred to her, she would roll with ’em.

Then in December, right around her 62nd birthday, she was diagnosed with a rare form of uterine cancer, a sarcoma, dangerous as a rattlesnake, potentially lethal. Another friend sent me a clinical description of the disease; I can’t bear to read it all the way through; it hurts. She had symptoms for months before diagnostic tests were made. The quality of health care, especially for women, in prison is not, shall we say, exemplary! But she kept her “health issues” vague and low-key with most supporters, including, to my chagrin, me; not wanting any “fuss” over herself; not wanting to worry her friends. Penny Schoner, a mutual friend and staunch supporter, reminds me gently, “This is a woman who wakes up every morning thinking about the plight of women in Afghanistan or Palestine, not about herself.”

Marilyn had surgery in the Bay Area, pretty quickly once a diagnosis was made, and should have started chemotherapy six weeks later, when the surgical wounds had healed. But at Carswell Federal Medical Center in Ft. Worth, where thousands of seriously ill federal prisoners are treated, the tests performed when she was finally admitted in mid-March (do the math!) revealed new tumors and growths outside the original cancer site.

Now at last, the chemo has started, and she is full of hope. She has so much pent-up energy, dreams, desires, abilities, concerns, and life to live! Her experiences in America’s prison gulags have illuminated a hundred worthwhile projects and pressing needs to which she wants to contribute, as well as a whole new world of experiences that so far she has been denied.

So why, now, with parole already scheduled and this serious illness, is she still imprisoned at all? She’s been locked up longer than almost every other 60s political prisoner. Former Chicago Panther Party member and Houston’s celebrated “Mayor of Da 5th Ward”, folk artist Robert al-Walee, says, “If Marilyn was a Black woman, she would be free by now; there would have been a public outcry for her release.” Lee compares Buck to famed abolitionist leader John Brown, demonized in the American historical record. Whites who stand steadfastly against racism and discrimination become “race traitors”, and the slander of “terror” drives away liberal support

Assata Shakur, who has lived in exile in Havana, Cuba, for many years, agrees. She wrote, “When I think of Marilyn as a preacher’s daughter, I think of her as someone who wrestled with the moral problems of our times, and who was not afraid to take principled positions around those issues. Marilyn had a choice. She could have remained silent, she could have reaped the benefits of white-skin privilege. But instead she chose the path of righteousness… she has defended the have-nots, the powerless, and as a woman she has struggled for the liberation of all women… the only reason that she remains incarcerated is because of her political activism… She needs and deserves the support of all those who are committed to freedom and the abolition of pain and suffering on this earth. She deserves to be supported, she deserves to be respected and she deserves to be free.”

Austin candyman (smile!) Robert King (http://www.kingsfreelines.com), a former prisoner and Panther activist at Louisiana’s notorious Angola Prison, where his two comrades, Herman Wallace and Albert Woodfox (www.Angola3.org) remain imprisoned, expressing his wishes for Buck’s recovery, remarked on her “indomitable spirit”. He says, “Marilyn’s self-directed commitment shows her evolution towards the ideal of the revolutionary ‘New Wo/Man’ of whom George Jackson spoke. This is what enables her to weather the storms of life. She has given so much, and has asked for nothing. She has kept the faith and continues to fight the good fight.”

Kathleen Cleaver, professor of law at both Yale and Emory Universities and a veteran of both the Black Panther Party and the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), had this to say: “Marilyn has always been stalwart and devoted in her dedication to the liberation of Black and all oppressed peoples. Unlike some, she never withdrew from that struggle.”

Akwasi Evans, publisher and editor of Austin’s NOKOA: The Observer, is another long-time admirer. He says, “Marilyn Buck is a truly courageous woman who sacrificed her liberty in the struggle for the liberation of all of America’s oppressed. She has paid a great price for her crimes against capitalist exploitation and ought to be released from prison now so she can fight her cancer in freedom instead of incarceration!”

Marilyn’s support has always been strong in the Black community, and among “minorities” in general. But some of us, her white sisters and brothers, have let her slip from mindfulness. She dared to support with deeds what we only said we supported: the right of Black people to defend themselves by any means necessary.

As for her experiences underground, after her 1977 escape from prison, these are of great relevance today. SDS and other Left organizations were crumbling then, under the combined assault of the State and our own lack of credible analysis. Marilyn has had a long time to meditate on the belief, held then by some, that armed revolution was imminent, and on the duties of the revolutionary. Reading her letters, poems, and essays over all these years, I’ve seen her extraordinary evolution, witnessed the maturation of an articulate, disciplined, ethical mind.

In her 1999 Master’s thesis in Fine Arts (she’s earned undergraduate and graduate degrees by correspondence while incarcerated), she wrote, “The artist creates the concept and framework for a different cultural paradigm. Political speeches, leaflets and pamphlets that exhort and condemn the old oppressive order rarely do that. Without the imagination, there is little daring to confront the old.”

We need her out here in the world; need her insight, her experience, and her creative imagination.

And at last, she has asked for a little help.

Here’s what we can all do right now:

1. JOIN Marilyn in meditation for a few minutes every morning at 7 a.m. Texas time. Visualize her healthy, healed, happy, and free. If you can’t wake up that early, do this meditation any time. Do it, if you have to, in your sleep.
• While you’re at it, ask your church, synagogue, or meditation center to put her on their prayer list, and send her a copy of the bulletin (address in next paragraph) so she knows she’s getting those good vibes!

2. SEND a get-well card or brief note to: Marilyn Buck 00482-285, FMC Carswell, PO Box 27137, Ft. Worth, TX 76127. Besides correspondence, the ONLY things she can receive are:
• money orders made out in her name (for small purchases in the prison commissary),
• photos of yourself and your family, newspaper or magazine clippings (but NOT entire periodicals), and
• some paperback books, preferably new.
If you write, don’t be miffed if she doesn’t reply; she is receiving a lot of mail and, d’oh, doesn’t have her usual energy! In a brief recent phone conversation, she said that she is being “upheld” by the love and support people are showing through such messages and her morning meditation. In a strange, horrid place, isolated, uprooted from familiar routines and friends of many, sick and in pain, she said “thank you”, and “please keep writing.”

[Yes, when you write to a prison inmate, even one who is in the hospital, your mail is censored. But sending a get-well card is unlikely to get you put on the Do-Not Fly list, not all by itself anyway!]

3. MONEY was already needed for Marilyn’s secure transition to unemployed freedom. Now, that need has increased, to insure ongoing monitoring of her health, possible follow-up treatments, and access to the healthy foods and supplements she’s been denied in the pen (a circumstance, in addition to the generally unhealthful condition of living in confinement, that no doubt contributed to her illness).

SEND a check or money order in any amount to: Friends of Marilyn Buck, % Legal Services for Prisoners with Children (www.prisonerswithchildren.org), 1540 Market St. – Ste. 490, San Francisco CA 94102, or contribute specifically to her welfare through their website. (If you’re in Austin, a benefit for her is tentatively planned here for June 25, and you’ll be asked to cough up deeply at that time!)
• VOLUNTEER for the anticipated Austin benefit. E-mail me: quinctilis@aol.com.

4. WATCH the Rag Blog and Austin’s other progressive media for updates!

5. And THINK of something else useful we can do; the goddamned injustice of this, as if pain and illness were ever justified, has me open to all kinds of suggestions! Thanks, C.G., for the “Alleged Un-crossing Candle”!

# # #

Type rest of the post here

Source /

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Your Good Vibes Are Needed:
Freedom Fighter Marilyn Buck Fights
for Her Life Before August Release

An “Alleged Un-Crossing Candle” burns before a Dharma Wheel based on the Whirlpool Nebula. The small photo of Marilyn, made when she was incarcerated at Alderson Federal Women’s Prison in the mid-1970s, when she and Wizard had already known each other for 10 years, ordinarily sits near the author’s front door.
The Rag Blog “burned” a similar candle a couple of years ago when former President G “Duhbya” Bush was practically praying that Cuban leader Fidel Castro would die of an intestinal ailment. Our candle is still burning, and Fidel is doing real well for a man his age. We’re not quite ready yet to start beheading chickens – but the time may be near.

by Mariann Wizard

AUSTIN, TX. As I write this, a member of the original Rag family needs our help, and, unprecedented in her tumultuous life, has asked for it. To me, if we ever had a true obligation to respond to such a plea; if our honor as self-proclaimed radicals ever depended on it, this is the one. But then again, Marilyn Buck (http://ragauthorspage.blogspot.com/2007/12/marilyn-buck.html) is a sister of my heart.

We’ve been friends since 1966, a world ago. A political prisoner since 1985, she was a fugitive for eight years before that, living a life with which I had no contact. Since her re-capture, our friendship has been expressed in all too few visits, many letters, phone calls, books shared, and poems critiqued. But before that, there were her fabulous boots, my first acid trip, Students for a Democratic Society, my husband George Vizard, our well-meant matchmaking, George’s death, GI organizing, hippie dancing, every visit I ever made to San Francisco, and unconditional love. For all its state-imposed limits, Marilyn is one of my closest and dearest friends, one of those, for me, of whom The Who sang, “You can count ’em on your one hand.” I mention this only to let you know up front that mine is not an unbiased report. But don’t get me wrong – ours is not an exclusive friendship; on the contrary, there are hundreds of people around the world who love her as much as I do. She has earned every bit of their affection.

Her fabulous boots-San Francisco, 1968-Photo by Jeff Blankfort

Not a few of our letters and phone calls concern political matters; Marilyn is a prodigious reader and organizer, and seldom misses a bet to connect people with causes that will interest them, or resources that will help forward a progressive – she would say “anti-imperialist” – vision. She has been a valued adviser to the Board of Directors of Youth Emergency Service, Inc. /The Phogg Phoundation for the Pursuit of Happiness (www.phoggphoundation.info) for years, bringing worthwhile non-profit organizations to our attention, always addressing the most relevant issues of the day.

Marilyn’s Episcopal minister father, Louis Buck, was legendary in Austin civil rights circles when I first got involved, as a college freshman, in 1965. I heard of Dr. Buck, and met him once or twice, before I ever met her. Marilyn had an upper-middle-class private school education, but crosses had been burned on the family lawn north of the University of Texas campus. Her father’s church de-frocked him, and he became a veterinarian to support his family.

Early on Marilyn saw that racism was wrong, that she needed to oppose it, and that the establishment could not be counted upon to do the right thing. Ironically, her Dad sent her to college at the University of California at Berkeley to keep her away from the crazy radicals (SDS and others) at UT Austin. Smart as a whip and curious about everything, the innocent young lady who went to “Berzerkeley” soon discovered psychedelics, rock music, and “high society”.

Sheltered young lady: Marilyn Buck as a bridesmaid in 1965 wedding of a classmate

Despite the protection the elder Bucks attempted to provide their cherished daughter, on the college campuses of 1965, there was no hiding place for anyone with a minimal curiosity about national and world affairs. But it was when she returned to Austin in 1966 that we “crazy radicals” met her. She and I, and George, became fast friends. We were fascinated with her West Coast sophistication; she with our close-knit radical community. It was in Austin that she joined SDS, worked on the original Rag, and met a national SDS organizer on his way out of town. She went with him.

Austin, Texas, police surveillance photo from an anti-war demonstration, 1966. L-R: Liz Helenchild, unknown woman, Terry Dyke, Marilyn Buck.

In Chicago, she worked in the SDS National Office and edited New Left Notes, the group’s national news organ, then returned by herself to the Bay Area, with a sharply-honed anti-imperialist outlook.

There she worked with Third World Newsreel – this was back when video cameras weighed 30+ pounds and needed two people to operate, running in tandem through the tear gas-choked streets, taping demonstrations as the San Francisco Tac Squad closed in! – And soon met and became friends with members of Bay Area Black Liberation groups.

Now, if you really don’t know who this woman is, that’s still no reason for me to duplicate the “About Marilyn” link at Friends of Marilyn Buck (http://marilynbuck.com/about.html). There is a lot more to Marilyn’s story of activism, self-sacrifice, and achievement, but it is her story to tell, and she’s not yet able to tell it; perhaps not yet able to entirely see it. She is held in the belly of the beast.

After a 1973 arrest for buying two boxes of ammunition under a false name, she was sentenced to 15 years in federal prison. The real accusation was that a middle-class, educated white woman had acted as quartermaster for the Black Liberation Army, an off-shoot of the Black Panther Party. She was charged and convicted for the same reason that UC professor and Communist Angela Davis had been arrested: she helped arm Black people to defend themselves against racist police and white supremacist attacks.

After four years at Alderson Federal Women’s Prison, where she was such a model prisoner that she worked in the prison pharmacy, and after being denied parole for, I think, the third time, she was given a furlough to consult with her lawyers. She didn’t come back.

During the next few years Marilyn allegedly participated in the prison escape of BLA leader Assata Shakur and a bank robbery to assist the New Afrikan independence movement, and, with other white anti-imperialists, was complicit in a smoke-bombing of the U.S. Capitol, to protest our invasion of Grenada and the bombing of Lebanon by U.S. warships. After her capture in 1985, she and three women co-defendants took a plea to secure the release of another, a physician whose non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma had recurred in prison. She received a total sentence of 80 years.

With co-defendant Susan Rosenberg (whose sentence was commuted by former President Bill Clinton before he left office in 2001) during the “Resistance Conspiracy” trial in 1988.

Immediately after sentencing, she was taken to a new, maximum security total lock-down federal women’s prison at Marianna, FL. Eventually, legal appeals by her and other political prisoners at Marianna, and at a similar facility in Lexington, KY, forced closure of both prisons as embodying cruel and unusual punishment.

Marilyn embodies the old-school principle, “Don’t mourn, organize!” Ever since her first arrest, she has steadfastly resisted diverting “movement resources” to her defense or benefit. In her interactions, she directs attention away from her personal inconveniences as a high-security prisoner (she is considered a “terrorist” by the government) to social and political issues, or at least to the personal lives of her friends and correspondents, with whom she unfailingly empathizes even when pointing out that one is being ridiculous. Her character is like the finest steel; it resists corrosion, shakes off the grime of daily use, and shines. Her level-headedness alone is enough to make her a valued friend!

Despite her selflessness, an active support group has grown up with members all over the world, centered in San Francisco, across the Bay from Dublin Federal Correctional Center, where Marilyn was sent after Marianna FCI was closed. Repeated attempts to gain parole have been slapped down through the years, and even her most optimistic supporters feared that she could expect no quarter from the minions of the State. The once-privileged daughter of the white middle class has been upheld throughout her captivity by a multicultural, multi-gendered group of working class supporters, poets, former prisoners, prison reform activists and others, enabled to buy postage stamps, pre-paid phone minutes, paper and pens, and kept in books and periodicals (she’s a daily reader of the New York Times), allowing her to stay in contact with friends and kindred spirits, and with a changing world.

Blooming where she’s planted – Marilyn at FCI Dublin, photo by author, 1994

During those years, Marilyn has became an accomplished, highly-acclaimed poet and translator; developed a significant artistic talent as a sculptor; organized prisoners to raise funds for AIDS education through a pledge walk-a-thon; and taught untold hundreds of other women how to read, how to think things through, and how to survive and even transcend their sentences. She has mentored and inspired scores of poets inside and outside the walls.

Both of her parents passed away during her incarceration, and she could neither see them before their deaths nor attend their funeral services. There have been other serious personal hardships, but that was, I think, the most difficult to bear. Even the shock of the 9-11 terrorist attacks in 2000, when Marilyn – along with scores of other prisoners around the country in many facilities, completely uninvolved in the attacks – was suddenly removed from her cell and placed in total solitary confinement, without access even to her attorneys for many days, didn’t really compare with not being able to mourn her parents.

All along, her principled conduct has brought many new friends and supporters along with the old. She had a steady stream of visitors at Dublin FCI, including 60s radical icons and the now-grown children of friends and former neighbors. She corresponds with poets and artists around the world. Thirty or more poets participated in making Wild Poppies (2004, Freedom Archives, www.freedomarchives.org), a CD of her poems, including South Africa’s laureate of liberation, Dennis Brutus, and Amiri Baraka (formerly known as LeRoi Jones), who introduces the compilation.

Visited by Kwame Ture (formerly known as Stokely Carmichael) at Dublin FCI, 1994. Ture passed on in 1998.

Finally, a year ago, it looked as if the sun would shine for her once more. A new hearing brought a positive decision: she would be released on parole in August, 2010! Supporters in the Bay Area began to raise funds for her expected transition to circumscribed freedom.

Marilyn has made every effort to stay connected, despite her isolation behind razor wire and the censor’s hand. She had never, ever talked about what she would do when, or if, she was released; when you’re doing an 80-year sentence, you do it, as they say, “one day at a time”. Suddenly she was full of questions: “What kind of computer should I get at first, a laptop or a desk top?” (She’s never been in cyberspace; most prison inmates can’t go online. I told her to get a smart phone for the first 6 months; see if she even needs a computer!) She wasn’t convinced that digital cameras are as good as film; and said she might find work in a photography studio… I held my tongue. She was coming out; nothing else mattered. Whatever changes that had occurred but hadn’t occurred to her, she would roll with ’em.

Then in December, right around her 62nd birthday, she was diagnosed with a rare form of uterine cancer, a sarcoma, dangerous as a rattlesnake, potentially lethal. Another friend sent me a clinical description of the disease; I can’t bear to read it all the way through; it hurts. She had symptoms for months before diagnostic tests were made. The quality of health care, especially for women, in prison is not, shall we say, exemplary! But she kept her “health issues” vague and low-key with most supporters, including, to my chagrin, me; not wanting any “fuss” over herself; not wanting to worry her friends. Penny Schoner, a mutual friend and staunch supporter, reminds me gently, “This is a woman who wakes up every morning thinking about the plight of women in Afghanistan or Palestine, not about herself.”

Marilyn had surgery in the Bay Area, pretty quickly once a diagnosis was made, and should have started chemotherapy six weeks later, when the surgical wounds had healed. But at Carswell Federal Medical Center in Ft. Worth, where thousands of seriously ill federal prisoners are treated, the tests performed when she was finally admitted in mid-March (do the math!) revealed new tumors and growths outside the original cancer site.

Now at last, the chemo has started, and she is full of hope. She has so much pent-up energy, dreams, desires, abilities, concerns, and life to live! Her experiences in America’s prison gulags have illuminated a hundred worthwhile projects and pressing needs to which she wants to contribute, as well as a whole new world of experiences that so far she has been denied.

With human rights activist and close friend Yuri Kochiyama, Dublin FCI, 1999

So why, now, with parole already scheduled and this serious illness, is she still imprisoned at all? She’s been locked up longer than almost every other 60s political prisoner. Former Chicago Panther Party member and Houston’s celebrated “Mayor of Da 5th Ward”, folk artist Robert al-Walee, says, “If Marilyn was a Black woman, she would be free by now; there would have been a public outcry for her release.” Lee compares Buck to famed abolitionist leader John Brown, demonized in the American historical record. Whites who stand steadfastly against racism and discrimination become “race traitors”, and the slander of “terror” drives away liberal support

Assata Shakur, who has lived in exile in Havana, Cuba, for many years, agrees. She wrote, “When I think of Marilyn as a preacher’s daughter, I think of her as someone who wrestled with the moral problems of our times, and who was not afraid to take principled positions around those issues. Marilyn had a choice. She could have remained silent, she could have reaped the benefits of white-skin privilege. But instead she chose the path of righteousness… she has defended the have-nots, the powerless, and as a woman she has struggled for the liberation of all women… the only reason that she remains incarcerated is because of her political activism… She needs and deserves the support of all those who are committed to freedom and the abolition of pain and suffering on this earth. She deserves to be supported, she deserves to be respected and she deserves to be free.”

Austin candyman (smile!) Robert King (http://www.kingsfreelines.com), a former prisoner and Panther activist at Louisiana’s notorious Angola Prison, where his two comrades, Herman Wallace and Albert Woodfox (www.Angola3.org) remain imprisoned, expressing his wishes for Buck’s recovery, remarked on her “indomitable spirit”. He says, “Marilyn’s self-directed commitment shows her evolution towards the ideal of the revolutionary ‘New Wo/Man’ of whom George Jackson spoke. This is what enables her to weather the storms of life. She has given so much, and has asked for nothing. She has kept the faith and continues to fight the good fight.”

Kathleen Cleaver, professor of law at both Yale and Emory Universities and a veteran of both the Black Panther Party and the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), had this to say: “Marilyn has always been stalwart and devoted in her dedication to the liberation of Black and all oppressed peoples. Unlike some, she never withdrew from that struggle.”

With Kathleen Cleaver, visitor at Dublin FCI, about 2008.

Akwasi Evans, publisher and editor of Austin’s NOKOA: The Observer, is another long-time admirer. He says, “Marilyn Buck is a truly courageous woman who sacrificed her liberty in the struggle for the liberation of all of America’s oppressed. She has paid a great price for her crimes against capitalist exploitation and ought to be released from prison now so she can fight her cancer in freedom instead of incarceration!”

Marilyn’s support has always been strong in the Black community, and among “minorities” in general. But some of us, her white sisters and brothers, have let her slip from mindfulness. She dared to support with deeds what we only said we supported: the right of Black people to defend themselves by any means necessary.

As for her experiences underground, after her 1977 escape from prison, these are of great relevance today. SDS and other Left organizations were crumbling then, under the combined assault of the State and our own lack of credible analysis. Marilyn has had a long time to meditate on the belief, held then by some, that armed revolution was imminent, and on the duties of the revolutionary. Reading her letters, poems, and essays over all these years, I’ve seen her extraordinary evolution, witnessed the maturation of an articulate, disciplined, ethical mind.

In her 1999 Master’s thesis in Fine Arts (she’s earned undergraduate and graduate degrees by correspondence while incarcerated), she wrote, “The artist creates the concept and framework for a different cultural paradigm. Political speeches, leaflets and pamphlets that exhort and condemn the old oppressive order rarely do that. Without the imagination, there is little daring to confront the old.”

We need her out here in the world; need her insight, her experience, and her creative imagination.

And at last, she has asked for a little help.

: Published poet Buck at FCI Dublin, 1998

Here’s what we can all do right now:

1. JOIN Marilyn in meditation for a few minutes every morning at 7 a.m. Texas time. Visualize her healthy, healed, happy, and free. If you can’t wake up that early, do this meditation any time. Do it, if you have to, in your sleep.
• While you’re at it, ask your church, synagogue, or meditation center to put her on their prayer list, and send her a copy of the bulletin (address in next paragraph) so she knows she’s getting those good vibes!

2. SEND a get-well card or brief note to: Marilyn Buck 00482-285, FMC Carswell, PO Box 27137, Ft. Worth, TX 76127. Besides correspondence, the ONLY things she can receive are:
• money orders made out in her name (for small purchases in the prison commissary),
• photos of yourself and your family, newspaper or magazine clippings (but NOT entire periodicals), and
• some paperback books, preferably new.
If you write, don’t be miffed if she doesn’t reply; she is receiving a lot of mail and, d’oh, doesn’t have her usual energy! In a brief recent phone conversation, she said that she is being “upheld” by the love and support people are showing through such messages and her morning meditation. In a strange, horrid place, isolated, uprooted from familiar routines and friends of many, sick and in pain, she said “thank you”, and “please keep writing.”

[Yes, when you write to a prison inmate, even one who is in the hospital, your mail is censored. But sending a get-well card is unlikely to get you put on the Do-Not Fly list, not all by itself anyway!]

3. MONEY was already needed for Marilyn’s secure transition to unemployed freedom. Now, that need has increased, to insure ongoing monitoring of her health, possible follow-up treatments, and access to the healthy foods and supplements she’s been denied in the pen (a circumstance, in addition to the generally unhealthful condition of living in confinement, that no doubt contributed to her illness).

SEND a check or money order in any amount to: Friends of Marilyn Buck, % Legal Services for Prisoners with Children (www.prisonerswithchildren.org), 1540 Market St. – Ste. 490, San Francisco CA 94102, or contribute specifically to her welfare through their website. (If you’re in Austin, a benefit for her is tentatively planned here for June 25, and you’ll be asked to cough up deeply at that time!)
• VOLUNTEER for the anticipated Austin benefit. E-mail me: quinctilis@aol.com.

4. WATCH the Rag Blog and Austin’s other progressive media for updates!

5. And THINK of something else useful we can do; the goddamned injustice of this, as if pain and illness were ever justified, has me open to all kinds of suggestions! Thanks, C.G., for the “Alleged Un-crossing Candle”!

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