Look for new opportunities for action, education, community, and solidarity in and around McHenry County here every week.
Walking the Walk
Two opportunities to observe Transgender Day of Remembrance.
An Eclectic Journal of Opinion, History, Poetry and General Bloviating
Look for new opportunities for action, education, community, and solidarity in and around McHenry County here every week.
Walking the Walk
Two opportunities to observe Transgender Day of Remembrance.
There sure are one hell of a lot of Bloody Sundays. Could make your head spin. A Wikipedia Disambiguation page lists 18 between 1873 and 1991 and I am not sure the list is definitive. The first was a Reconstruction Era race riot in Colfax, Louisiana in which White Democrats attacked Black Republicans and Militia members trying to defend the ballot results of an election. Between 50 and 160 Blacks were killed, most executed after surrendering and their bodies dumped in the river. The most recent listed was on January 13, 1991 in Vilnius, Lithuania when Soviet troops opened fire on civilians protesting rising prices in newly independent nation. In between most of the incidents were cases of police, military, or armed security guards opening fire on protestors. A handful like a 1939 massacre of civilians at Bydgoszcz, Poland by Nazi Germany were war crimes.
Most Americans associate Bloody Sunday with the attack on voting rights marchers at the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama on March 7, 1965 setting the stage for the historic Selma to Montgomery March on March 21. They may also recall a Bloody Sunday on January 30, 1972 when British Army Paratroopers opened fire on unarmed Catholic demonstrators in Belfast, Northern Ireland leading to a twenty year-long guerilla war and bombing campaign by the Provisional IRA. It is remembered as much for protest songs by Paul McCartney, Give Ireland Back to the Irish; John Lennon, Sunday Bloody Sunday; and U2’s song of the same name.
The events in London’s famed Trafalgar Square on November 13, 1887 are virtually unknown to Americans, but this particular Bloody Sunday was pivotal in British political, class, and labor history and helped shape a generation of struggle.
Times were hard in Britain in the 1880’s. Had been since a crash in 1873 and would continue to be until the turn of the 20th Century. The period is remembered as the Long Depression. There were many contributing causes but among the most significant was a collapse in agricultural commodity prices that combined with the introduction of modern farming equipment displaced rural agricultural laborers and tenant farmers who with nowhere else to go flooded the cities. The infusion of so many unskilled laborers into the cities led to a collapse of wages. Unemployment skyrocketed and depressed wages led to widespread want.
Nowhere was the agricultural depression felt more strongly than in Ireland where despite huge losses in population due to starvation and disease in the Potato Famine decades earlier and mass emigration to the United States, Canada, and Australia, continuing consolidation of landed estates forced more peasants off the land, many of them piling into English cities when they could not raise fare for new worlds.
Discontent was building in the cities where there were demonstrations of the unemployed and clashes with police for two years. And in rural Ireland there were rent strikes, boycotts, rioting, and unrest which caused the Coercion Act of 1881 allowing for persons to be imprisoned without trial. The act was introduced by the Liberal Government of William Gladstone and, along with continued harsh measures in Ireland, led to the abandonment by the radical wing of the Party. With the old Whigs shattered, the Tories—now officially the Conservatives, swept to power and would remain in the saddle almost continually through the rest of the century. Their hold was secured by the allocation of seats in Parliament that still vastly underrepresented urban and working class districts while preserving rural safe Ridings for the Conservatives.
The Conservatives ideologically refused to consider measures of domestic relief or economic reforms that might have interfered with a free market. They were also most interested in the maintenance and extension of the Empire through which the vast wealth of the world settled into the hands of banks, corporations, and an entrenched elite who were thus insulated from the domestic economic crisis.
These conditions gave rise to new movements—a small but growing socialist movement including the Marxists of the Social Democratic Federation (SDF) and Socialist League, and the middle class and intellectual Fabian Society of reformist socialists. Discontented Liberals and former Liberals rallied around organizations like the National Secular Society, various free thought movements, and radical religious dissenters including the Unitarians.
There were also organizations of the Irish diaspora, increasingly radicalized by the Coercion Acts. These were galvanized by the recent arrest of Irish nationalist Member of Parliament William O’Brien who was imprisoned for incitement as a result of an incident in the Irish Land War. The Irish National League called for a mass demonstration to demand O’Brien’s release.
The SDF, led by William Morris, better known to American viewers of Antiques Road Show as the textile and furniture designer who was the father of the Arts and Crafts Movement, was eager to curry favor with the burgeoning Irish populations of the London slums and joined in the call for a demonstration. They broadened demands to include unemployment relief. They were able to attract fairly significant numbers of native English workers, many of them members of the struggling trade union movement. The Fabians were not official sponsors, but most prominent members offered their support, including Irishman George Bernard Shaw, as did some of the radical Liberals and Freethinkers.
The march was well publicized in advance. The Conservative government of Lord Salisbury vowed not to be intimidated and assigned infantry companies and cavalry troops in support of hundreds of massed Metropolitan Police who were armed only with their truncheons.
The flash point would be Trafalgar Square where the working class East End met the upper-class West End of London. On that Sunday afternoon as many as 30,000 “respectable citizens” ringed the square in hopes of witnessing the suppression of the march as if it were a spectator sport. Ironically, although many of the crowd probably hoped to see violence unleashed against the demonstrators, the presence of so many witnesses caused authorities to order that troops carry unloaded weapons and that the cavalry refrain from drawing their sabers. There would be no repeat of the bloody military attacks on Chartist demonstrators 40 years before.
The march was well organized and coordinated. Various feeder marches converged on the Square from different points in the East End. Columns were led by Morris, fiery trade unionist and SDF leader John Burns, National Secularist League speaker Annie Besant, Scottish radical Liberal MP Robert Cunninghame-Graham, and the socialist feminist Elizabeth Reynolds. Their prominence is an indication of how much of the leadership of the movement had slipped from the hands of the Irish nationalists to the socialists and radicals.
But the majority of the marchers, estimated at around 10,000 in numbers were Irish. And they were plenty mad. By all accounts many had come armed with clubs, iron bars, gas pipes, and knives. They were met with a force of 2,000 police and 400 troops. As soon as Annie Besant attempted to address the crowd, she was restrained by police, who despite her insistence declined to arrest her. But police did attack other leaders including Burns and Cunninhame-Graham beating both men badly before dragging them away.
Police charged the crowd with truncheon’s swinging. They were met and resisted by many of the armed Irish in a bloody melee in which dozens on both sides were seriously injured. Perhaps biased press accounts claimed that the Police suffered greater injuries. Troops surged forward to disperse the crowd, the cavalry trampling many and some demonstrators were stabbed by bayonets. Scores were injured and at least two demonstrators, Alfred Linnell, a young clerk and W. B. Curner died later of their wounds.
Burns, Cunninhame-Graham, and others who were arrested were sentenced to seven weeks in prison. In Parliament most Liberal MPs supported the Conservative government’s use of force and its refusal to offer any concessions to the demonstrators.
One week later a second protest meeting was broken up by police. Shortly after Linnell, who had not even been a participant in the march, but an unlucky spectator run down by a cavalry horse, died. William Morris composed a memorial hymn which was published and widely disseminated. Morris spoke at a memorial for Linnell telling thousands assembled that, “It is our business to begin to organize for the purpose of seeing that such things shall not happen; to try and make this earth a beautiful and happy place.”
When the prisoners were released in February an open meeting led to a breach between the radical Liberals, secularists, and reformist socialists and the more radical Marxists. SDF leader Henry Hyndman violently denounced the Liberal party and singled out for criticism even radicals like Cunninghame-Graham for being insufficiently committed to the working class. It represented a rejection of “respectable” middle class leadership leading eventually to a new strategy centering on the Trade Union movement and the creation of a working class-led social democratic Labour Party.
The British labor and socialist movements would look back on Bloody Sunday as an almost mythic event in their self-defined origin stories.
“I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kind of things you can’t see from the center.” —Kurt Vonnegut
Kurt Vonnegut was born on Armistice Day, November 11, 1922 in Indianapolis, Indiana. He would become a veteran of another war, and the experience shaped him as a human being—one of the great iconoclasts of his time, and a confirmed pacifist.
His death on April 11, 2007 at the age of 84 was, as he predicted, not an emphatic period at the end of a long life, but a mere semi-colon (he despised semi-colons.) He died of a brain injury sustained after slipping and falling at his Manhattan apartment several days earlier. It was the kind of comic, anti-heroic departure he could have written himself.
And Vonnegut would have noted the connection to the announcement in Washington the same day that all American troops in Iraq and Afghanistan were having their tours in the war zones extended by another 120 days. He despised the war and the men who started it. Leaving behind such brutal stupidity would have been a pleasure for him
.
Unitarians Universalists, in our insecurity, are always making lists of “greats.” Having dominated 19th Century American literature, there is often a kind of desperately wide net thrown to haul in contemporary writers to keep up our cultural bona fides. Vonnegut shows up on these lists.
He was, after all, very publicly avowed Humanist, the successor to another science fiction writer, Isaac Asimov, as Honorary Chair of the American Humanist Association. A Man Without a Country, his last book, was something of a Humanist scream in a world corrupted by fake Christianity. It was largely assembled from his essays in the Chicago-based socialist magazine In These Times. We all know that Humanism has also found a home in Unitarian Universalism.
Vonnegut was proud to claim descent from generations of German-American Free Thinkers, just the sort of folks who found a congenial home with the radical brand of Unitarianism espoused by Jenkin Lloyd Jones and the old Western Unitarian Conference at the turn of the 20th Century. Vonnegut’s parents were married by a Unitarian minister, and the family belonged to the congregation in Indianapolis. Architect Kurt, Sr. even designed a building for the congregation. Although not much of church goer later in life, he liked to tell of visiting a Unitarian congregation and hearing the minister joke about the bells peeling “No Hell! No Hell!” (surely a Universalist sentiment.) He sometimes referred to himself as a Unitarian and was glad to be called to give the prestigious Ware Lecture at the 1986 UUA General Assembly. He was also asked to speak on the occasion of William Ellery Channing’s 200th birthday at First Parish in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Then it was off to war as an infantry scout for Patton’s 3rd Army. In the confusion of the Battle of the Bulge Vonnegut was separated from his unit and wandered for several days behind German lines before being captured. As a prisoner of war, in the defining moment of his life, he survived the Allied firebombing of the historic city of Dresden and was put to work collecting and disposing of the incinerated corpses in the old city. This was the central event of one of his most famous novels, Slaughter House-Five, named for the actual facility in which he and his fellow prisoners rode out the fire storm. The incident also figures in at least 5 other novels.
In post-war America he participated in the rush to corporate security when he took a public relations job with General Electric in Troy, New York. The job didn’t last long, but the bitter experience of corporate corruption, power, and arrogance lingered. Troy became the Ilium of several Vonnegut novels beginning with his first novel Player Piano, a savage corporate dystopia. The book was a publishing failure in 1952 but slowly gained a cult following as paperback editions followed.Many of his novels involved organized religion on one hand and a drive for spiritual honesty on the other. In Sirens of Titan gave us The Church of God the Utterly Indifferent. In Cat’s Cradle it was the transparently fraudulent, but serenely comforting—and perhaps actually saving—Bokononism. God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater even distills what might be called a theology of atonement, forgiveness, and kindness. In it Eliot Rosewater says:
Hello, babies, welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve go about a hundred years here. There only one rule that I know of, babies—‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’
Vonnegut thought so much of that last passage he repeated it in his swan song A Man Without a Country.
He had his heroes. His fright-wig hair and droopy mustache were surely homage to both Mark Twain (for whom he named a son) and Albert Einstein. He admired Abraham Lincoln of whose speech attacking the Mexican War he wrote “Holy shit! And I thought I was a writer!” He paired Jesus and Socialist—and fellow Terre Haute native—Eugene V. Debs. He liked to quote Debs, “As long as there is a lower class, I am in it. As long as there is a criminal element, I am of it. As long as there is a soul in prison, I am not free,” and follow up with the Beatitudes.
Vonnegut in later life used variations of this to illustrate his books and to sign letters and autographs.
This is a resurrection an old chestnut that I first read as a Chalice Lighting to open services at the old Congregational Unitarian Congregation in Woodstock, Illinois (now Tree of Life UU Congregation in Ridgefield. It was included in my 2004 Skinner House collection, We Build Temples in the Heart.
It was based on the memories of a boy from Cheyenne in the 1950s. Reviewing it now, I am struck that the World War II is fast fading away. In not too many years the last of them will be gone, just as I remember the passing of the last World War I vet at the age of 110 in 2011. The cohort of their children, the so-called Baby Boomers are fast aging as well. I am 77 and my friends with parents who served in what Studs Terkel called the Last Good War are about the same.
It occurs to me now that my grandchildren won’t understand much of what I wrote about. They live in a different world. World War II and post-war America are decades older for them than the Great War was for me. Neither will they know or care about our Vietnam War choices obliquely referenced in the last lines.
Pictures, Poppies, Stars and Generations
We knew war.
Somewhere in every home a handsome young man
peered from a tinted photograph,
overseas cap at a jaunty angle
or the fifty-mission crush
or the crisp, square beanie of a gob.
usually someone’s Dad in some other life,
but sometimes the ghost of someone frozen in time,
caught in that picture like a fly in amber
while bloody shreds were left draped on barbed wire
ten feet from the high water on an anonymous beach,
or splattered on the glass of the ball turret
of a Mitchell bomber spiraling for an appointment
with a German potato field,
or bobbing in a sea of burning oil, naked and parboiled.
We knew pity.
The veterans in neat blue uniforms,
sleeves pinned to shoulders, ears shot away,
noses burned off, faces twitching,
fistfuls of red paper poppies in one hand,
shaking white cans for nickels with the other.
on every street corner, May and November
and no decent man or woman passed
without emptying pockets of change,
twisting flowers into buttonholes, on to purse straps,
without ever looking the peddler in the eye.
We knew death.
Inside scrapbooks with brittle pages and fading ink,
kept far up in the front hall closet behind hatboxes,
surrounded by last winter’s scarves and mittens,
between the leatherette boards bound by black shoelaces,
amid the rations coupons, V-mails,
postcards from exotic ports, Brownie snapshots,
campaign maps, and yellowed clippings,
a small fringed flag,
white edged in red and blue,
a gold star in the center.
In the neighborhood we looted footlockers and duffel bags,
saved our allowances for forays to the Army/Navy Store,
outfitted ourselves in helmet liners, webbed belts,
canteens and mess kits, cast–off khaki and drab,
and amid the prairie burrs and grasses,
between the wild rose hedge and lilac caves,
on top of the car port, in the window wells,
every summer day we tried to sort glory from horror.
We knew war and pity and death—
we thought.
And then—suddenly—it was our turn for real.
—Patrick Murfin