America Me

Yes, we wander and we work, in your crops and in your fruit, like the whirlwinds on the desert, That’s the dust bowl refugees. – “Dust Bowl Refugee” ~ Woody Guthrie

A young man in Mexico,
poor enough to live in a hut
with a dirt floor,
fiercely religious,
speaks no English,
crawls across an imaginary line
in the Desert
in the dead of night
to OZ .

He labors bent over
in a strawberry field
picking my food
for sub-standard wages,
no health care,
no other kind of care,
no safety codes,
no rules that favor him.
He pays taxes to an invisible hand every payday
for which he receives nothing.
He is reviled.

One day men with American flags
festooned on their drab military style uniforms
approach.
They call out “Criminal”.
He looks around to see
who they speak of
as their well fed
white knuckles
grip his arm.
He is going home.

Migrants in Mexico
who risk the road to Xanadu
are folk heroes.
They are urban mythologies.
Those that hire them,
the Patrons,
rich and powerful,
when weighed against their brown Mexican sweat,
are the beneficiaries.

Closed borders did not make America.
Borders open to young men and women
everywhere did.
Is it a crime to cross that line?
To feed hungry children
or wives or mothers
or only to hope
to improve one’s life?
Shame on the heretics of the American dream
and legacy.
An American is not defined
by which side of that line he is on.

In Martin Scorsese’s historical epic film
“Gangs of New York”,
the war in the streets of Hell’s Kitchen
for cultural dominance
was fought between
the Nativists,
“born right” (in America)
and the foreign hoards (immigrants).

The present day debate on the “illegal”,
an unfortunate term,
smells like the stench in the 5 corners of New York City
at the dawn of America.

Take to the streets.
Strike!
Tear down the fences.
Build bridges instead.

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Hatred Trumps Hope By Tom Shachtman

The American Prophet Who Predicted Trump

The uncanny insights (and incredible life) of the American longshoreman and political prophet. By Tom Shachtman

Whether or not Donald Trump knows it, he’s running his presidential campaign out of Eric Hoffer’s playbook. That would be The True Believer, published 65 years ago this spring, a book about mass movements. Hoffer’s big insight was that the followers of Nazism and Communism were essentially the same sort of true believers, the most zealous acolytes of religious, nationalist, and other mass movements throughout history.

In 1951, it was stunning to Americans to be told that ultra-right-wing Nazis and ultra-left-wing Communists—their recent enemies of World War II and current enemies in the Cold War—were, according to Hoffer, cut from the same cloth. “All mass movements,” he explained, “irrespective of the doctrine they preach and the program they project, breed fanaticism, enthusiasm, fervent hope, hatred, and intolerance.”

Hatred and hope were the most important lures, Hoffer contended, hatred much more than hope: “Hatred is the most accessible and comprehensive of all the unifying agents. Mass movements can rise and spread without belief in a God, but never without belief in a devil.”

Trump’s followers have responded most enthusiastically to the candidate’s diatribes against such devils as Mexicans and other “illegal immigrants,” Muslims of any stripe, unattractive or pushy women, clueless policy-makers, “loser” opposing candidates, and reporters who ask him other than softball questions.

The pollsters tell us that Trump’s followers share a decided affinity for authoritarianism, as well as beliefs that government causes more problems than it solves and that immigrants (and people with darker skins, and women) have stolen their jobs and their futures.

More: Trumpsters have little regard for facts that contradict their stances. Hoffer could have predicted this. “It is the true believer’s ability to ‘shut his eyes and stop his ears’ to facts that do not deserve to be either seen or heard which is the source of his unequaled fortitude and constancy. He cannot be frightened by danger nor disheartened by obstacle nor baffled by contradictions because he denies their existence.”

Hoffer described in detail who the true believers were: the frustrated, the disaffected, the dissatisfied with the status quo, those who put their faith in a leader promising simple yet radical solutions to their and society’s problems. “We join a mass movement,” Hoffer wrote, “to escape individual responsibility, or, in the words of the young Nazi, ‘to be free from freedom.’

“Faith in a holy cause is to a considerable extent a substitute for the loss of faith in ourselves.

“All mass movements deprecate the present,” wrote Hoffer, “and there is no more potent dwarfing of the present than by viewing it as a mere link between a glorious past and a glorious future.” That’s what Trump is doing when he vows to “make America great again”—celebrating what was and will be, while denigrating what is.

Trumpsters are predominantly white, native-born American males who do not have college degrees, and are economically in the lower middle class rather than among the very poorest. Actually, in these ways they are more like Eric Hoffer than many other Americans. In a 1964 article, Hoffer identified himself and his fellow longshoremen as white men from poor backgrounds, with little education and no skills except for their willingness to do backbreaking manual labor, who “do not feel that the world owes us anything, or that we owe anybody—white, black, or yellow—a damn thing.”

Hoffer was the only child of Alsatian immigrants, born in the Bronx around the turn of the 20th century—sometimes he said 1898, at others, 1902—who grew up poor. When he was 5 he and his mother fell down a flight of stairs; she died and he went blind. His blindness prevented him from going to school, and upon regaining his sight at 15 he continued studying on his own until he was 18, when his father died. Using a small death award from his father’s union, Hoffer traveled to Los Angeles and in the 1920s became a day-worker and Skid Row denizen—reading voraciously in libraries between gigs—in the 1930s an itinerant agricultural field hand, and in 1943 a unionized San Francisco dockworker, a position he retained even after becoming a best-selling author, and until he reached mandatory retirement age in 1967.

He initially took that job on the docks to have more stability to write, but retained the wariness of the itinerant, knowing, as he told his first editor, that he must “guard against fear, self-righteousness, and wishful thinking, for these blunt the mind and the senses.” In the same vein, Hoffer chose not to read Freud, Marx, or other influential intellectuals—he hated intellectuals—so that he would not be swayed by their explanations and jargon. During his itinerant years he began jotting down his thoughts in 3-by-5 inch notebooks carried in his pockets and backpacks, which I was able to consult at the Hoover Institution for my 2011 biography, American Iconoclast: The Life and Times of Eric Hoffer.

Unlike Trump’s followers, Hoffer early on understood that “undesirables” were not the enemy. That revelation occurred in 1934, when as a transient fruit-and-vegetable picker he was swept up and placed in the El Centro camp at the edge of the southern California desert near the Mexican border, and for the first time had to co-exist with 200 other men. Prior to that, he considered himself “just a human being, neither good nor bad, and on the whole, harmless,” but after a month at El Centro he realized he belonged to “a certain type of humanity, the undesirables.”

Some were lame, some were foreign-born, some were tramps, some were much darker-skinned than the rest but, he concluded, all were the same as the “undesirables” who for generations had fled from Europe and Asia and became American pioneers, the people who for 300 years had built our farms and roads and cities and institutions.
Throughout the rest of his life, Eric Hoffer continued to venerate and celebrate the “undesirables” as America’s real founding fathers.

Crossing the Rubicon

Crossing the Rubicon

Whatever moral ascendancy

the Presidency once held was lost today.

The 2/3 of white men

and 54% of white women

who voted this charlatan in;

must now allow reason to overrule passion

and admit that this is cancer –

and vow to neither cringe or retreat

until we the people excise its poison.

Marathon Man

“It takes the night to clear all this mess away; the obligation, the burden and the light of day. It takes the night to fall between the world I obey, and a world where I hear angels play”. – The Night Inside Me – Jackson Browne

The kid looks like he’s twelve and too polite to say “with your eyes, in a couple years; you just might need a German Shepard, a white cane and a tin cup” – but it’s my interpretation of his medical diagnosis. I make a mental note to add it to my nightmare shit list, along with being hooked to a dialysis machine, having no cash and all the other boogie-man things I worry about whenever I slip up and forget to stay in the now. Maybe none of it happens, maybe all of it; but not today.

Those coveted magical hours asleep have passed me by now. Even though I’ve been twenty-five thousand one hundred and eighty-five days alive today, sixty-nine winters, sixty-nine summers; the merciless sunlight will not grant me safe sanctuary from its garish glare. So I acquiesce, leave our cherished dream world and open my eyes; embracing the many-colored beast and wonder. What fresh hell is this?

I woke up in pieces in this cardboard town; conscious and aware for fleeting moments, then disappearing again and again, insentient; struggling to ebb, evaporate, vanish; hanging on to this tender night a while longer. It’s tough to make it in a world stirring when the heart is naked. We just can’t get enough of the night.

The daylight world outside is tugging like a hobo at my sleeve. I hear fragments of music carried down the wind from some distant radio; like listening to your telephone voice whispering echo’s soft and low. While California’s shaking like your fond memories in my brain, you’re the whispering and sighing of my tires in the rain.

I’ll wait for the setting sun; lying incognito under the Milky Way, holding, lingering for night to set me free and receive my birthday gift; the famous Perseid meteor shower that inexplicably peaks on my birthday. It will award me fifty to one hundred meteors per hour in my treasured midnight full moon sky. I don’t know what to make of that enchanting supernatural happenstance.

Tracking my memories from that first day to this, that first victory; the winning sperm from Dad’s joyous moment, beating out five hundred million of his others by the whimsical nature of fortune; through all the other victories and defeats, that despite my mad path still finds me mostly winning; yearning for just one more adventure, one more kiss from your perfect fairy-tale lips.

I should have been dead five or six times that I know about, or damaged at the least. Yet now I’m strongest at the broken places, at the top of my game. Maybe this is heaven; the women loved. It’s to those gentle ones my memory runs. Or maybe, more likely, somewhere in-between, a Purgatory, wrapped in a Roman Carnival, with Barker’s on the Midway.

Trumps Xenophobes

“And they don’t quite seem to understand; the way the hammer shapes the hand” – Casino Nation – Jackson Browne

Immigration Nation

Barbecues crackle from grease bubbles that drop and crystallize; looking like broken glass. The wafting above makes waves in the air like heat over a radiator. The aroma of fricasseed flesh wafts sour weenie smoke up and down the lacing of the shore.

Suddenly the world outside my writer’s window erupts into electric splinters as the patriotic bombs explode in the cloudless sky, showering the trees with a million tiny neon bulbs; the preparatory whistling sounds imitate a mortar attack. Swooping strands of light rising, rising, rising until they merge with the stars and make a bridge right up to the heavens; Boom! Boom! Boom! The fourth of July has come early to my middle American alcove.

Anything with a spine has fled; hunkered down and shivering in the forest while the fireworks light the sky in psychedelic color movie joy. While my typer and me seek only the transcendental; the tourist’s scurry madcap in howls of manic laughter across the sacred lake. They seek a red, white and blue somatic experience; weekend warriors begging sensual unfolding after the tightly wound city work a day weeks fall away. They are here for hurry up fun and love-making that intensifies the sensations.

Four years in and I guess I’ll have to cop to being a local. I suppose I’m in good company. Hunter Thompson and Ken Kesey moved to the woods; Papa Hemingway pulled over to the shoulder as well; he quit the whole damn program for the island of Cuba; you can’t get more removed from the noise than an island. I’m ensconced in my own Walden Pond like a modern-day Henry David Thoreau, the transcendentalist who begged a cabin from Emerson a couple of miles from town for his reflection upon simple living in natural surroundings. He said he wanted to sort out the wheat from the chaff and suck the marrow out of life; to escape the wages of fame, that industrial disease to creativity; that all-encompassing external experience that often excludes intimacy.

Meanwhile an ill wind blows foul in the Motherland and Gods’ flesh is crawling. If he could see and hear the antics of this cast of odious characters in Trumps’ America, flag-waving protesters as manic as lathered horses in the home stretch forcing immigrants, Americas life blood, to leave before a fear gripped gang of xenophobic’s descending on our scared, hungry, tired children of the America’s; he’d never stop throwing up.

These so-called Christians, sans the compassion and empathy, which is at the core of their cult teachings, wave brightly colored over-sized American flags; symbols that ring like cymbals; “all foreigners go home”; accompanied by a hate filled chorus of U.S.A., U.S.A; a happy fourth welcome to North America for children of the Americas tougher than the violence and poverty they have escaped; asking only to be part of the American dream; dumbstruck with fear at the vicious reception at the barricades of heaven.

We have seen this film before; the placard carrier’s hands forced into clenched fists to pummel the weak. They pledge allegiance to what the flag use to mean. Now, its “English only” as the legislated official language rail the Nativist; telling us all how we “must” speak, how we “must” dress, then, next surely, how they “must” think. The thought police aren’t far behind. Hell, they’re here now, making everyone the same like some insidious virus. Where have we seen this kind of group think before? Sieg Heil. Shut up and sing. I pledge allegiance. My country right or wrong; I pledge allegiance; love it or leave it. I pledge allegiance; or the terrorists win.

A young man in Mexico, poor enough to live in a dirt floor hut, fiercely religious, speaks no English, crawls across an imaginary line in the desert in the dead of night; to OZ; to labor bent over in a strawberry field picking my food for sub-standard wages, no health care, no other kind of care, no safety codes, no rules that favor him. He pays taxes to an invisible hand every payday for which he receives nothing. He is reviled.

One day men with American flags festooned on their drab military style uniforms approach; they call out “Criminal”. He looks around to see who they speak of as their well fed white knuckles grip his arm. He is going home. Migrants in Mexico who risk the road to Xanadu are folk heroes to those they leave behind. They are urban mythologies. Those that hire them, the Patrons, rich and powerful when weighed against their brown Mexican sweat, are the beneficiaries.

Closed borders did not make America. Borders open to young men and women everywhere did. Is it a crime to cross that line; to feed hungry children or wives or mothers or only to hope to improve one’s life? Shame on the heretics of the American dream and legacy; an American is not defined by which side of a line he is on.

In Martin Scorsese’s historical epic film “Gangs of New York”, the war in the streets of Hell’s Kitchen for cultural dominance was fought between the Nativist, “born right” (in America) and the foreign hoards (immigrants). The present day debate on the “illegal”, an unfortunate term, smells like the stench that reeked in the five corners section of New York City at the dawn of America.

Take to the streets. Strike! Tear down the fences. Build bridges instead.

“Inscription on the Statue of Liberty”
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses, yearning to breath free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.