#Gnarls Barkley newspaper

[ceelogreenfc]

On Vacation...

Posted on 07.31.06

This week, I am on vacation. I write to you from the seaside address whereupon I spent much of my childhood.

Although it occupies the same geographic location, this house, which I have rented for the week, bears little practical resemblance to the elegantly shabby cottage of my youth. When I was a lad, my family would place buckets under the leaks in the roof, boil the water, and use if for cooking and drinking. Now, an upper story has been added, and there are no holes in the roof. Water runs from taps in the sinks and bathtubs, and a large refrigerator preserves the fresh produce. The floorboards are new and do not creak.

I must confess a bit of the sentimental nostalgia for the place in its earlier dilapidated condition. How strange, and old mans' confusion when the problems of his youth are put right.

Compared to St. Elsewhere, this land is rife with bustle and competition. In its place, competition can be exciting. (I am a tad chagrinned that, upon my public challenge to him, my rival Tsar Christopher promptly disappeared from public view I was pumped for an invigorating campaign against him in the fall. So it goes.) But I fear that the folk of my homeland have forgotten the purpose their competition was supposed to serve: the greater good of all people. As we attempt to one-up each other, we must continually re-examine the goals we are pursuing: if the ends of our contests and struggles are not valuable, then neither are the games themselves.

Last night, I ate a large plate of spaghetti and took in a rock and roll show. The band, Balderdash, had at some point invited a particularly witty heckler on stage to insult them at close range. This arrangement worked so well that the heckler became a member of the band, and now performs with them on tour. I found it a clever gimmick, though the members of Balderdash, including the aforementioned heckler, we far too drunk to properly pull of their cover of The Sun Aint Gonna Shine Anymore.

I will return in a few days time. Next week, I will address St. Elsewhere’s most pressing concerns, including any that may have arisen in my absence. Fear ye not.

Yours Most Sincerely,

A.B. Vidal

#A.B. Vidal #Atomic Bomb #Gnarls Barkley #St. Elsewhere #AB Vidal Journal #Gnarls Barkley newspaper #newspaper #ficticional city

[oldpunkfromda90s-blog]

Lineages of Protest: A Brief Review Of, Reflection On, and Postscript to Season 1 of the podcast Mother Country Radicals By Chris  White

Lineages of Protest:

A Brief Review Of, Reflection On, and Postscript to Season 1 of the podcast Mother Country Radicals

By Chris  White

The first season of Zayd Dohrn’s podcast, Mother Country Radicals, is exceptional.  First, in an era where everyone releases recordings of tired conversations into the world for 15 minutes of fame, it is well written, well produced, and well paced. My friend who told me about it  said something to the effect of, “Have you heard that Serial podcast about the Weather Underground?” Zayd has such a unique intimate connection to the material and an access to people about a part of their lives that is closely guarded. And also, he discovers things in the reporting that he did not know or realize before.  But also, I like it especially because it fills in a lot of context of both my family’s life and my own journey. 

Zayd Dohrn is the oldest son of Bernadine Dohrn and William Ayers who were part of an underground, sometimes violent, direct action movement against U.S. Imperialism and racism beginning in the 60s.. He was born while his parents were still in hiding and grew up as they emerged from it. 

William Ayers, once served on a foundation board with Barack Obama, and was therefore a central figure in the opposition research about Obama the candidate. My favorite tv moment during the 2008 election was the Saturday Night Live skit in which they portray William Ayers and Jeremiah Wright performing the Gnarls Barkley song Crazy. 

One of the episodes, the fourth one I believe, describes the death of Diana Oughton in a Greenwich Village townhouse due to a bomb that exploded during manufacture. I first heard about Diana Oughton when I was in high school. I lived in my mother’s basement where one of her bookshelves was. There was a sensational biography of Diana Oughton next to an anthology of underground newspapers. My mom told me about almost getting kicked out of high school for distributing the newspaper and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for protests that Oughton was a part of. 

Someone in the podcast says something to the effect of, “Those who do don’t tell and those who tell can’t do.” I assume that if Mother Country Radicals was a movie, my parents and some of my other relatives would be composite characters and extras. I imagine them in the closing credits with role names like Hippy Making Sandwiches #2 and Woman Living In Commune. But what do I know? None of them would want to have burdened me with any information nor would they have shared specifics about themselves or their friends.  

 When I was growing up in the 80s I remember the feeling that my parents were from the 60s. My mom has so many stories, but the accuracy of them is unclear. My dad mostly just says that it was a very difficult time and that it’s hard for him to think about. 

In the 80s, there were a lot of cultural tropes about the 60s.  There were reruns of Laugh In and The Monkees. I went through a period of being obsessed with The Beatles.

During my childhood, there were many pop culture references to groups like the Weather Underground and also to the Symbionese Liberation Army or SLA who were known for allegedly kidnapping and possibly recruiting the heiress Patty Hearst. The one I remember most vividly was a two part Laverne & Shirley episode. I saw the films Flashback and Rude Awakening in the theater which were both screwball comedies about radicals emerging from the underground into a world they struggle to understand.  I wonder if the Dohrn Ayers family has ever seen either of these films, because I can almost hear their eyes rolling. 

My parents met at a concert in Gallup Park in Ann Arbor organized by the 60s activist John Sinclair. It was the MC5 opening for Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen. Do you remember the end of Back To The Future where Michael J Fox has to play Johnny B Goode so his parents will kiss or else he will cease to exist? That’s how I feel about these two bands.

In particular, the stoner country stylings of Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen are particularly bizarre cultural artifacts. I have a live album in which they do an epic cover of the long form narrative country classic “Hot Rod Lincoln.” In this version, the singer has to convince the police officer that pulls him over that he is not some “long haired hippie S-L-A  commie weirdo.” “I had to show him my house.”.

My parents have such very hippy wedding photos.They were two hippies that loved to cook and planned to get married and open a little hippy restaurant.  And then they have the most awkward photo of my dad with a haircut and a shirt and tie with my mom in a sprawling apartment complex . At this point my dad has stopped being counter cultural and is being mentored in food service management by a man named Michael from whom I got my middle name. By the time I was born, my dad was an assistant manager at the Stouffer’s Restaurant at 666 Fifth Avenue in New York City.  

 In between, there are stories. There is the honeymoon where they attempt to hitchhike to California. My mom says that the Bay Area was exhausting, because my dad was constantly wandering off and she had to rescue him from being taken by cults. She says he would come up to her and say something like, “These guys in the van have these really good free burritos and they just want us to go with them so they can show us this really cool place.”

And after I was born, we eventually  moved back to the Midwest, and my mom’s stories continue. They are of a different era. My dad took a job in Flint, Michigan,  as the assistant food service manager of Hurley Hospital where part of his brand was that he went along to get along with his employees’ union.  While the Fair Housing Act passed in 1969, our historically white Flint neighborhood was only just beginning to integrate in the 80s. And for my mom, what we would say in today’s anti-racist parlance  is that she was recruited by black leaders to do the organizing and emotional labor with the parents who supported integration.

 I did get taken to protests growing up. I remember seeing Jesse Jackson get in a heated exchange with police in Washington D.C at an Anti-Apartheid protest. during a family road trip. But more often, I was at community meetings and canvasses. Slow careful populist organizing was what I witnessed, not the frantic disruption of “Days of Rage.”

Meanwhile, the generation between us, perhaps the youngest siblings or older niblings of the Weather Underground, were supporting Latin American uprisings like the Sandinistas and attempting to infiltrate factories. One epicenter of this was the factories around me in Southeastern Michigan, and another was the textile factories in Greensboro, North Carolina.

Also, in Flint, you could see the traces of the old left. Every year, my cub scout troop would march in a parade with the surviving sitdown strikers who in 1936 occupied Chevy In The Hole, over by my house, and won recognition for the UAW.

About first grade, I had a friend Juanita, a white kid with a Latin name, who started coming over after school so her hippy mom could stay at work. And then in return, I would sometimes go over there or join them on camping trips. I only met her dad a couple times, but he was one of those leftists who had long hair, worked in the factory, and sold radical newspapers on street corners. Juanita and I got enrolled in a weekly Alvin Ailey style dance class at the arts center on the historically African-American side of Flint. We were the only white kids and I was the only boy in the class. I felt insecure about having to wear tights. I remember my Republican grandparents coming from Ann Arbor for the recital.

But the initial attempts to build left wing factions inside the UAW and in nonunion factories sputtered due partly to a lack of rank and file interest in leftist theory and also the intense wave of deindustrialization.The big auto companies slashed the Michigan workforce through automation, outsourcing parts and processes to nonunion suppliers, and also exporting jobs to Texas and Mexico  I remember when the Detroit Tigers played a Texas Rangers home game and half the stadium was wearing Tiger hats. Michael Moore’s Roger & Me came out when I was in middle school and talked about how this process led to Flint falling apart and having more rats than people. These days, people who hear my wife and I spent part of our childhoods in Flint ask us about the water crisis, but that happened long after we had lived there. And also, the block I grew up on was devastated by disinvestment and abandonment years before the water crisis.

The water crisis in Flint is better understood when you look at what happened years earlier when Coleman Young was Mayor of Detroit. So many white families refused to live in a city with black leadership that Southeastern Michigan became a ring of suburbs who used and extracted resources from Detroit but fought viciously against any resources going into Detroit. It was a similar pattern of racism and neglect that lead to the takeover and mismanagement of Flint’s government and failed to continue the water treatment that had previously prevented lead from leaching into the taps.

There were some activists who got their coworkers involved in a stronger more authentic space in the labor movement, but it was from talking about occupational health and safety more than Marx and Lenin. There was also an organizing wave of “pink collar” office jobs that was  informed by feminism and lead by the organization “9 to 5” which inspired Jane Fonda to help make the film 9 to 5 that I saw in the theaters.

Also,  in 1979, a group of Greensboro counter protesters were shot and killed at a Klan rally, and the movement there scattered. Many of them would eventually be in the staff and/or leadership of unions and nonprofits I would later work with. 

My parents split up, my mom got sick, and the late 80s found me in high school and living with her in affordable housing on the edge of the increasingly fluent Ann Arbor. My mom bought me an army surplus jacket like she used to wear as an SDS militant and I covered it in art and buttons. I started going to punk shows in a basement on Hill Street where bands like Green Day played a couple years before they became big names playing stadiums.

The first Gulf War led to a resurgence of radical youth organizing. A group of students at my high school threatened a walk out and then negotiated with the principal to have a “teach in” forum about the war instead. A member of the Bush Sr. cabinet flew in to speak in between our parents’ generation of anti war activists.  The war, along with the collapse of Soviet Communism, led to a revival of interest in Anarchism.

But also, the collapse of the leftist movement in the factories devolved into what felt like fifty mostly white middle class students in sixty different partisan leftist organizations that constantly fought over a shrinking amount of  attention. If you’ve ever seen the heated argument between the Judean People’s Front and the People’s Front of Judea in the Monty Python movie LIfe of Brian, then you know exactly what it was to sit in a cafe near the University of Michigan in the 80s and 90s watching stacks of rival leftist newspapers fall over each other while people argue about interpretations of Marxism while drinking expensive coffees.. 

 Some of my friends went to the selective enrollment Community High School, Commie High,  as it was affectionately called,  was where there was an open campus, rampant alternative chic, students calling teachers by their first names, and other values and practices that seemed to come out of the 60s cultural space. However, most kids did not get into Community. There were so few spots and so much demand that at one point parents were literally camping out to be in line for enrollment. The kids in my mostly POC neighborhood disproportionately ended up in the mainstream high school which felt less pressure to reform because families with resources who wanted something different should just go to the alternative school. While Community High students could leave campus for any reason without penalty, an Ann Arbor police officer at my high school would literally hide in the bushes to bust you for doing the same.

That was a strange part of my upbringing. The values of intervention and attention to the disparities in the world that the Weather Underground wanted to address in solidarity with the Black Panthers and Black Liberation Army turned into a lot of spaces that were supposed to create a container for those values but became exclusive spaces for people who were mostly wealthy and white. One of the reasons that I got into punk was that between Grateful Dead tickets, organic cotton clothing, and high grade marijuana, I couldn’t really afford to be a hippy. Parents in Ann Arbor were very interested to read about neighborhoods like mine, but lost their freaking minds if the African American kid next door to me got in one little fight at their kid’s school.  Being a white articulate poor person helped me get a lot of financial aid that allowed me to attend a small, high tuition “progressive” liberal arts college. We boycotted Pepsi over their involvement in Burma and took classes about Saul Alinsky, but we had very few African American students if any. 

 Meanwhile after the end of the Vietnam War, another wave of anti war activists calling themselves Movement For A New Society or MNS moved en masse to a working class neighborhood in West Philadelphia. The ones with means would buy some of the large houses that were dropping in price so that people could have an inexpensive room and the free time to be part of organizing. Many found jobs and leadership positions in the American Friends Service Committee, the social justice ministry of the Quaker Church. MNS  and allied activists created a training institute, a book publisher, a food coop, a land trust, and other social and economic infrastructure that supported an activist lifestyle.  

Meanwhile or a little later, a number of activists began taking over and squatting large tenement buildings on the Lower East Side of New York that had either been abandoned or kept vacant by speculators. Many were part of the punk rock or new wave art scenes. Some that left New York bought or squatted in Philadelphia and enjoyed the immense infrastructure that Movement For a New Society had built. One house I lived in off and on for 8 years, was a former squat that the residents had managed to purchase at a tax sale.

The new wave of anarchists that came out of opposition to the first gulf war during my high school years turned into, during my college years, what I jokingly refer back to as the golden age of anarchist franchise organizing. On weekends, I would hitch hike from my isolated college campus  into town and end up sleeping on the floor of an activist household. This group of people had met at protests and conferences and moved there together. They bottomlined the regional or local chapters of  Earth First, Food Not Bombs, Anti Racist Action, Radical Cheerleaders, radical library, 60’s poltical prisoner support group, books to prisoners project, etc.  I started showing up and eventually traveled and visited projects across the country, especially in California’s  Bay Area. 

On New Years Day 1994, the Zapatista Army of National Liberation or EZLN rose up in arms to seize the land from the handful of wealthy families that owned most of the state of Chiapas in Mexico  It was the first post Soviet revolution. This indigenous army, many of which had survived Reagan’s bloody intervention in the political tumult in neighboring Guatemala, immediately declared a ceasefire and attempted negotiations. People from across Mexico and the world organized support caravans and delegations of human rights observers. I would eventually spend time there in the late 90s. While the Mexican Government has mostly failed to honor its promises and conducted a low intensity war, the EZLN has mostly held on to the land and created a development model on its own terms lead by its own people.  

After graduation and before and after my trips to Chapas, I ended up in West Philly. A Zagat review of my favorite neighborhood Eritrean restaurant described it as being in the “Anarchist Section of Philadelphia.” I was enticed to get the “West Philly Deal” which was the idea that if you moved to West Philly and joined the activist community you would get a cheap room, six romantic dates (or dried figs), a bicycle made out of spare parts, and a role in a band. Also, West Philly was where the Food Not Bombs (a movement of radical food distribution collectives) and ACT-UP chapters were becoming more diverse and having more traction with and ownership by affected communities of color, though progress was slow and not without problems. .  

During my second trip to Chiapas, I missed the 1999 World Trade Organization Protest in Seattle. I had been traveling around the country going to different protests with what felt like the same 200 people and therefore had planned to go to Mexico instead. But then just about every other activist in North America was there as well as the activists who were about to take over SEIU, HERE, and  the AFL-CIO. It was the zenith of the movements that had started organizing in reaction to the first Gulf War. I was then part of a number of follow up mega-protests though they seemed to dwindle in size and effectiveness.

The September 11th attacks seemed to change the political space in which movements operated. Also, the legal fallout from the protests at the 2000 Republican National Convention had taken years to clear up.

 About that time,  I’d heard that the janitors union needed someone bilingual in English and Spanish to help. I showed up and was shocked to learn that I was getting paid for a 9 week internship normally reserved for members. I had been surviving off of odd jobs and medical studies for five years and never been paid to be part of a movement (although protest movements had allowed me access to a lot of resources.)  I stayed at the union for six years and then followed the man who hired me back into community organizing. Now twenty years have passed and I have bounced between paid labor organizing, community organizing, and fair housing enforcement ever since . 

And now my stepkids think I’m a strange old guy from the 90s. They think of me in a foggy photo of a sea of black denim of filthy white kids screaming along at a Los Crudos show in a Losaida Squat.(not that this happened all at once as far as I can remember).  There’s a goofy clip of me on the news in Eugene Oregon in 1996  and a picture of me in a boxcar a few days later wearing a shirt with a Propagandhi patch.These look so retro now, but to me that was almost yesterday. 

I’m hoping there will be more seasons of Mother Country Radicals. I would love for Season 2 to cover the era when middle class, mostly white,  leftists coming of age in the 80s who supported left wing uprisings in Latin America  tried to become factory workers. Maybe there could be prequel seasons about Alinsky and the Civil Rights Movement and the characters in Reds. Maybe I would be a background character in the season about the 90s.   

[rustbeltadventure]

Lineages of Protest: A Brief Review Of, Reflection On, and Postscript to Season 1 of the podcast Mother Country Radicals By Chris  White

Lineages of Protest

A Brief Review Of, Reflection On, and Postscript to Season 1 of the podcast Mother Country Radicals

By Chris  White

The first season of Zayd Dohrn’s podcast, Mother Country Radicals, is exceptional.  First, in an era where everyone releases recordings of tired conversations into the world for 15 minutes of fame, it is well written, well produced, and well paced. My friend who told me about it  said something to the effect of, “Have you heard that Serial podcast about the Weather Underground?” Zayd has such a unique intimate connection to the material and an access to people about a part of their lives that is closely guarded. And also, he discovers things in the reporting that he did not know or realize before.  But also, I like it especially because it fills in a lot of context of both my family’s life and my own journey. 

Zayd Dohrn is the oldest son of Bernadine Dohrn and William Ayers who were part of an underground, sometimes violent, direct action movement against U.S. Imperialism and racism beginning in the 60s.. He was born while his parents were still in hiding and grew up as they emerged from it. 

William Ayers, once served on a foundation board with Barack Obama, and was therefore a central figure in the opposition research about Obama the candidate. My favorite tv moment during the 2008 election was the Saturday Night Live skit in which they portray William Ayers and Jeremiah Wright performing the Gnarls Barkley song Crazy. 

One of the episodes, the fourth one I believe, describes the death of Diana Oughton in a Greenwich Village townhouse due to a bomb that exploded during manufacture. I first heard about Diana Oughton when I was in high school. I lived in my mother’s basement where one of her bookshelves was. There was a sensational biography of Diana Oughton next to an anthology of underground newspapers. My mom told me about almost getting kicked out of high school for distributing the newspaper and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for protests that Oughton was a part of. 

Someone in the podcast says something to the effect of, “Those who do don’t tell and those who tell can’t do.” I assume that if Mother Country Radicals was a movie, my parents and some of my other relatives would be composite characters and extras. I imagine them in the closing credits with role names like Hippy Making Sandwiches #2 and Woman Living In Commune. But what do I know? None of them would want to have burdened me with any information nor would they have shared specifics about themselves or their friends.  

 When I was growing up in the 80s I remember the feeling that my parents were from the 60s. My mom has so many stories, but the accuracy of them is unclear. My dad mostly just says that it was a very difficult time and that it’s hard for him to think about. 

In the 80s, there were a lot of cultural tropes about the 60s.  There were reruns of Laugh In and The Monkees. I went through a period of being obsessed with The Beatles.

During my childhood, there were many pop culture references to groups like the Weather Underground and also to the Symbionese Liberation Army or SLA who were known for allegedly kidnapping and possibly recruiting the heiress Patty Hearst. The one I remember most vividly was a two part Laverne & Shirley episode. I saw the films Flashback and Rude Awakening in the theater which were both screwball comedies about radicals emerging from the underground into a world they struggle to understand.  I wonder if the Dohrn Ayers family has ever seen either of these films, because I can almost hear their eyes rolling. 

My parents met at a concert in Gallup Park in Ann Arbor organized by the 60s activist John Sinclair. It was the MC5 opening for Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen. Do you remember the end of Back To The Future where Michael J Fox has to play Johnny B Goode so his parents will kiss or else he will cease to exist? That’s how I feel about these two bands.

In particular, the stoner country stylings of Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen are particularly bizarre cultural artifacts. I have a live album in which they do an epic cover of the long form narrative country classic “Hot Rod Lincoln.” In this version, the singer has to convince the police officer that pulls him over that he is not some “long haired hippie S-L-A  commie weirdo.” “I had to show him my house.”.

My parents have such very hippy wedding photos.They were two hippies that loved to cook and planned to get married and open a little hippy restaurant.  And then they have the most awkward photo of my dad with a haircut and a shirt and tie with my mom in a sprawling apartment complex . At this point my dad has stopped being counter cultural and is being mentored in food service management by a man named Michael from whom I got my middle name. By the time I was born, my dad was an assistant manager at the Stouffer’s Restaurant at 666 Fifth Avenue in New York City.  

 In between, there are stories. There is the honeymoon where they attempt to hitchhike to California. My mom says that the Bay Area was exhausting, because my dad was constantly wandering off and she had to rescue him from being taken by cults. She says he would come up to her and say something like, “These guys in the van have these really good free burritos and they just want us to go with them so they can show us this really cool place.”

And after I was born, we eventually  moved back to the Midwest, and my mom’s stories continue. They are of a different era. My dad took a job in Flint, Michigan,  as the assistant food service manager of Hurley Hospital where part of his brand was that he went along to get along with his employees’ union.  While the Fair Housing Act passed in 1969, our historically white Flint neighborhood was only just beginning to integrate in the 80s. And for my mom, what we would say in today’s anti-racist parlance  is that she was recruited by black leaders to do the organizing and emotional labor with the parents who supported integration.

 I did get taken to protests growing up. I remember seeing Jesse Jackson get in a heated exchange with police in Washington D.C at an Anti-Apartheid protest. during a family road trip. But more often, I was at community meetings and canvasses. Slow careful populist organizing was what I witnessed, not the frantic disruption of “Days of Rage.”

Meanwhile, the generation between us, perhaps the youngest siblings or older niblings of the Weather Underground, were supporting Latin American uprisings like the Sandinistas and attempting to infiltrate factories. One epicenter of this was the factories around me in Southeastern Michigan, and another was the textile factories in Greensboro, North Carolina.

Also, in Flint, you could see the traces of the old left. Every year, my cub scout troop would march in a parade with the surviving sitdown strikers who in 1936 occupied Chevy In The Hole, over by my house, and won recognition for the UAW.

About first grade, I had a friend Juanita, a white kid with a Latin name, who started coming over after school so her hippy mom could stay at work. And then in return, I would sometimes go over there or join them on camping trips. I only met her dad a couple times, but he was one of those leftists who had long hair, worked in the factory, and sold radical newspapers on street corners. Juanita and I got enrolled in a weekly Alvin Ailey style dance class at the arts center on the historically African-American side of Flint. We were the only white kids and I was the only boy in the class. I felt insecure about having to wear tights. I remember my Republican grandparents coming from Ann Arbor for the recital.

But the initial attempts to build left wing factions inside the UAW and in nonunion factories sputtered due partly to a lack of rank and file interest in leftist theory and also the intense wave of deindustrialization.The big auto companies slashed the Michigan workforce through automation, outsourcing parts and processes to nonunion suppliers, and also exporting jobs to Texas and Mexico  I remember when the Detroit Tigers played a Texas Rangers home game and half the stadium was wearing Tiger hats. Michael Moore’s Roger & Me came out when I was in middle school and talked about how this process led to Flint falling apart and having more rats than people. These days, people who hear my wife and I spent part of our childhoods in Flint ask us about the water crisis, but that happened long after we had lived there. And also, the block I grew up on was devastated by disinvestment and abandonment years before the water crisis.

The water crisis in Flint is better understood when you look at what happened years earlier when Coleman Young was Mayor of Detroit. So many white families refused to live in a city with black leadership that Southeastern Michigan became a ring of suburbs who used and extracted resources from Detroit but fought viciously against any resources going into Detroit. It was a similar pattern of racism and neglect that lead to the takeover and mismanagement of Flint’s government and failed to continue the water treatment that had previously prevented lead from leaching into the taps.

There were some activists who got their coworkers involved in a stronger more authentic space in the labor movement, but it was from talking about occupational health and safety more than Marx and Lenin. There was also an organizing wave of “pink collar” office jobs that was  informed by feminism and lead by the organization “9 to 5” which inspired Jane Fonda to help make the film 9 to 5 that I saw in the theaters.

Also,  in 1979, a group of Greensboro counter protesters were shot and killed at a Klan rally, and the movement there scattered. Many of them would eventually be in the staff and/or leadership of unions and nonprofits I would later work with. 

My parents split up, my mom got sick, and the late 80s found me in high school and living with her in affordable housing on the edge of the increasingly fluent Ann Arbor. My mom bought me an army surplus jacket like she used to wear as an SDS militant and I covered it in art and buttons. I started going to punk shows in a basement on Hill Street where bands like Green Day played a couple years before they became big names playing stadiums.

The first Gulf War led to a resurgence of radical youth organizing. A group of students at my high school threatened a walk out and then negotiated with the principal to have a “teach in” forum about the war instead. A member of the Bush Sr. cabinet flew in to speak in between our parents’ generation of anti war activists.  The war, along with the collapse of Soviet Communism, led to a revival of interest in Anarchism.

But also, the collapse of the leftist movement in the factories devolved into what felt like fifty mostly white middle class students in sixty different partisan leftist organizations that constantly fought over a shrinking amount of  attention. If you’ve ever seen the heated argument between the Judean People’s Front and the People’s Front of Judea in the Monty Python movie LIfe of Brian, then you know exactly what it was to sit in a cafe near the University of Michigan in the 80s and 90s watching stacks of rival leftist newspapers fall over each other while people argue about interpretations of Marxism while drinking expensive coffees.. 

 Some of my friends went to the selective enrollment Community High School, Commie High,  as it was affectionately called,  was where there was an open campus, rampant alternative chic, students calling teachers by their first names, and other values and practices that seemed to come out of the 60s cultural space. However, most kids did not get into Community. There were so few spots and so much demand that at one point parents were literally camping out to be in line for enrollment. The kids in my mostly POC neighborhood disproportionately ended up in the mainstream high school which felt less pressure to reform because families with resources who wanted something different should just go to the alternative school. While Community High students could leave campus for any reason without penalty, an Ann Arbor police officer at my high school would literally hide in the bushes to bust you for doing the same.

That was a strange part of my upbringing. The values of intervention and attention to the disparities in the world that the Weather Underground wanted to address in solidarity with the Black Panthers and Black Liberation Army turned into a lot of spaces that were supposed to create a container for those values but became exclusive spaces for people who were mostly wealthy and white. One of the reasons that I got into punk was that between Grateful Dead tickets, organic cotton clothing, and high grade marijuana, I couldn’t really afford to be a hippy. Parents in Ann Arbor were very interested to read about neighborhoods like mine, but lost their freaking minds if the African American kid next door to me got in one little fight at their kid’s school.  Being a white articulate poor person helped me get a lot of financial aid that allowed me to attend a small, high tuition “progressive” liberal arts college. We boycotted Pepsi over their involvement in Burma and took classes about Saul Alinsky, but we had very few African American students if any. 

 Meanwhile after the end of the Vietnam War, another wave of anti war activists calling themselves Movement For A New Society or MNS moved en masse to a working class neighborhood in West Philadelphia. The ones with means would buy some of the large houses that were dropping in price so that people could have an inexpensive room and the free time to be part of organizing. Many found jobs and leadership positions in the American Friends Service Committee, the social justice ministry of the Quaker Church. MNS  and allied activists created a training institute, a book publisher, a food coop, a land trust, and other social and economic infrastructure that supported an activist lifestyle.  

Meanwhile or a little later, a number of activists began taking over and squatting large tenement buildings on the Lower East Side of New York that had either been abandoned or kept vacant by speculators. Many were part of the punk rock or new wave art scenes. Some that left New York bought or squatted in Philadelphia and enjoyed the immense infrastructure that Movement For a New Society had built. One house I lived in off and on for 8 years, was a former squat that the residents had managed to purchase at a tax sale.

The new wave of anarchists that came out of opposition to the first gulf war during my high school years turned into, during my college years, what I jokingly refer back to as the golden age of anarchist franchise organizing. On weekends, I would hitch hike from my isolated college campus  into town and end up sleeping on the floor of an activist household. This group of people had met at protests and conferences and moved there together. They bottomlined the regional or local chapters of  Earth First, Food Not Bombs, Anti Racist Action, Radical Cheerleaders, radical library, 60’s poltical prisoner support group, books to prisoners project, etc.  I started showing up and eventually traveled and visited projects across the country, especially in California’s  Bay Area. 

On New Years Day 1994, the Zapatista Army of National Liberation or EZLN rose up in arms to seize the land from the handful of wealthy families that owned most of the state of Chiapas in Mexico  It was the first post Soviet revolution. This indigenous army, many of which had survived Reagan’s bloody intervention in the political tumult in neighboring Guatemala, immediately declared a ceasefire and attempted negotiations. People from across Mexico and the world organized support caravans and delegations of human rights observers. I would eventually spend time there in the late 90s. While the Mexican Government has mostly failed to honor its promises and conducted a low intensity war, the EZLN has mostly held on to the land and created a development model on its own terms lead by its own people.  

After graduation and before and after my trips to Chapas, I ended up in West Philly. A Zagat review of my favorite neighborhood Eritrean restaurant described it as being in the “Anarchist Section of Philadelphia.” I was enticed to get the “West Philly Deal” which was the idea that if you moved to West Philly and joined the activist community you would get a cheap room, six romantic dates (or dried figs), a bicycle made out of spare parts, and a role in a band. Also, West Philly was where the Food Not Bombs (a movement of radical food distribution collectives) and ACT-UP chapters were becoming more diverse and having more traction with and ownership by affected communities of color, though progress was slow and not without problems. .  

During my second trip to Chiapas, I missed the 1999 World Trade Organization Protest in Seattle. I had been traveling around the country going to different protests with what felt like the same 200 people and therefore had planned to go to Mexico instead. But then just about every other activist in North America was there as well as the activists who were about to take over SEIU, HERE, and  the AFL-CIO. It was the zenith of the movements that had started organizing in reaction to the first Gulf War. I was then part of a number of follow up mega-protests though they seemed to dwindle in size and effectiveness.

The September 11th attacks seemed to change the political space in which movements operated. Also, the legal fallout from the protests at the 2000 Republican National Convention had taken years to clear up.

 About that time,  I’d heard that the janitors union needed someone bilingual in English and Spanish to help. I showed up and was shocked to learn that I was getting paid for a 9 week internship normally reserved for members. I had been surviving off of odd jobs and medical studies for five years and never been paid to be part of a movement (although protest movements had allowed me access to a lot of resources.)  I stayed at the union for six years and then followed the man who hired me back into community organizing. Now twenty years have passed and I have bounced between paid labor organizing, community organizing, and fair housing enforcement ever since . 

And now my stepkids think I’m a strange old guy from the 90s. They think of me in a foggy photo of a sea of black denim of filthy white kids screaming along at a Los Crudos show in a Losaida Squat.(not that this happened all at once as far as I can remember).  There’s a goofy clip of me on the news in Eugene Oregon in 1996  and a picture of me in a boxcar a few days later wearing a shirt with a Propagandhi patch.These look so retro now, but to me that was almost yesterday. 

I’m hoping there will be more seasons of Mother Country Radicals. I would love for Season 2 to cover the era when middle class, mostly white,  leftists coming of age in the 80s who supported left wing uprisings in Latin America  tried to become factory workers. Maybe there could be prequel seasons about Alinsky and the Civil Rights Movement and the characters in Reds. Maybe I would be a background character in the season about the 90s.