Tuesday, October 3, 2017

What Doesn’t Stay in Vegas—Murfin Verse




What Doesn’t Stay In Vegas
October 3, 2017

What happens in Vegas doesn’t stay there.

It oozes under the front door
of that little house in Tennessee
leaving a nasty stain in the carpet
that will last generations.

It drips from the empty desk
            in the high school office
            where the phone rings unattended
            next to a famed family photo
            and a jar of M & Ms.

It is tangled in the nets
            of that Alaska trawler
            spilling on the deck
            and splattering those rubber boots.

It has to be wiped from the table
            of that Disneyland cafĂ©
            by some other harried waitress
            before it spoils some child’s
            special day
            or gets on Snow White’s costume.

It pools by the council’s table
            in a San Diego courtroom
            the empty chair
            unable to represent
            the mother of three.

It cannot be washed from
            the filthy hands
            of every politico
            who took gun pushers’ cash
            and kissed the ass of every
            fetishist wanking himself off
            to violence porn and hero fantasies.

—Patrick Murfin


Monday, October 2, 2017

The Parsley Massacre—A Dominican Genocide of Haitians

Rafael Trujillo of the Dominican Republic may have strutted on a smaller stage than others, but in his country as rutheless and brutal as the big names of 20th Centrury despotism and he had a "final solution" for his country's "Hatian problem."


If Americans recall Generalissimo Rafael Trujillo, the brutal and avaricious dictator of the Dominican Republic, at all it is for winding up dead in a bullet ridden Chevy in 1961, the victim of an abortive coup d’Ă©tat arranged with the wink-and-not support of the Central Inelegance Agency (CIA.)  His death unleashed a decade of turbulence in the Caribbean nation which eventually “required” the intervention of American Marines yet again.
His death was just one bookend of a career as President and/or power-behind-the-throne for more than thirty years.  The other bookend was his rise to power as an officer in the Dominican Army, the protĂ©gĂ©e of Marines who occupied the country on behalf of United Fruit and other American interests through most of the 1920’s.
He was Army Chief of Staff in 1930 who allowed a revolution to topple a previous dictator, then quickly assumed power as President winning 99% of the vote in an election that a U.S. State Department official admiringly reported earned him more votes than there were voters.
Before he even donned the Presidential sash for the first time his soldiers and police were rounding up and quietly disposing of any possible opponents.  He ruled with an iron hand, directly or indirectly until peppered with rounds from CIA supplied M-1 carbines.
On one hand, Trujillo set off on a modernizing campaign that built highways to tie the nation more closely to the Capital Santo Domingo which he eventually modestly renamed Ciudad Trujillo as well as schools and hospitals.  He and his family also appropriated most of the nation’s cattle and dairy production as well as vast sugar cane plantations and other local economic powerhouses.
One key element of his nationalist policy was assuring the continued mastery of a White elite in the face of a nation that was largely Mestizo, with a rapidly growing Black population.  That population included not only a high birthrate for the decedents of Spanish slaves, but increasing numbers of Haitians spilling over a porous and contested border from the Creole French speaking western portion of the island of Hispaniola.
Relations between the two countries had always been difficult.  Haiti had invaded and occupied the Dominican Republic from 1822-44.  When Trujillo took power, the western provinces were poorly connected to the capital and to Dominican markets, naturally trading across the border to Haiti.  In the sparsely populated northwest as Haitians, lured by jobs in the sugar industry, had been taking up residence for decades.  Many now were second or third generation and while speaking Creole, were at least nominal Dominican citizens.
French Creole Haiti and the Dominican Republic--the former Spanish colony of Santo Domingo have uneasily shard the  island of Hispanola.  Tenssions came to a head in the so-called Parsley Massacre in 1937.
The border was poorly defined and both nations had outstanding territorial demands of the other. Trujillo was concerned that Haiti would use majority pockets of Haitian immigrants and their descendants to make further claims. In 1933 and 1935, Trujillo met the Haitian President Stenio Vincent to settle the border issue and in 1936, they reached and signed a settlement.
But that settlement did not include repatriation of Haitians in the Dominican Republic.  Trujillo had other plans for that.
For years his tightly controlled press had hyped any and all reports of crime committed by Haitians.  When there was not enough, he would manufacture it.  He particularly pointed out nearly non-existent rustling of cattle from the large herds of local ranchers—of which he and his family were the most important.  In the kinds of tactics Hitler would later use to justify the invasion of Poland, depredations were made up and highly publicized.
On October 2, 1937 the President publicly signaled a brutal new policy already underway in a speech given in the northwest provincial province capital of DajabĂłn.
For some months, I have traveled and traversed the border in every sense of the word. I have seen, investigated, and inquired about the needs of the population. To the Dominicans who were complaining of the depredations by Haitians living among them, thefts of cattle, provisions, fruits, etc., and were thus prevented from enjoying in peace the products of their labor, I have responded, “I will fix this.” And we have already begun to remedy the situation. Three hundred Haitians are now dead in Bánica. This remedy will continue.
Indeed five days of unimaginable horror and brutality that came to be known in English as the Parsley Massacre was underway.  In a well-organized campaign elements of the Army, police, and Trujillo’s security force, the dreaded Servicio de Inteligencia Militar (SIM), fanned out across the border region searching for Haitians.  They were not hard to find.
The story circulated that soldiers brought with them sprigs of parsleyperejil in Spanish.  Creole speaking Haitians were supposed to be unable to trill the r in the word.  Those who failed the test were executed on the spot, along with family members found with them.  Afro-Dominicans who passed the test were allegedly let go.  This tale, while popularized in the Anglo press, is largely mythical.  And in fact many Afro-Dominicans as well as Haitians were swept up in the blood bath.
Dominicans and Haitians have two different names for the five days of killing that followed.  Dominicans call it el cortethe cutting.  Haitians call it kouto-athe knife.
Murdered by the Army and Trujillo's personal security forces the rotting bodies of ethnic Hatians littered the ground.
Because many of the attackers were in civilian garb, surprised Haitians—many of them longtime residents and citizens—at first expected the Army to rescue them.   Instead they were shot, hacked to death by machetes, and bludgeoned with clubs and baseball bats.  Whole villages were surrounded and wiped out.  Those attempting to escape by fleeing across the Artibonite River to Haiti were intercepted on its banks and killed or drowned trying to reach safety on the other side.
In the five day killing spree, somewhere between 20,000 and 30,000 suspected Haitians were killed.  Murders continued on a more subdued level across the region for years.
The government of Haiti naturally protested the massacre.  But the black ruled nation was largely a pariah to neighboring Spanish speaking Caribbean and Latin American nations.  The U.S. State Department conducted an investigation and determined that, despite Trujillo’s claims that the killings were the work of outraged Dominicans and not the state, that the killing were indisputably the policy of the government and carried out by its forces. 
The Roosevelt administration toyed with the idea of another intervention to save the Haitians, but was effectively blocked by powerful Southern Democrats in the U.S. House and Senate who saw nothing wrong in killing Blacks.  Some were also the recipients of Trujillo’s gifts and largess.
Despite a moment or two of international embarrassment, Trujillo easily rode out the controversy.  He would subsequently kill an additional 30,000 suspected opponents of his regime in his long tenure.
In the end, the State Department accommodated him as the country’s economy prospered and so did the profits of American investors.  

When Trujillo became an embarssing niusance to the United States the CIA provided the encouragement and carbines for the attack that riddled the dictator's Chevy killing him and his entourage.
But by the ‘50’s Trujillo’s heavy handed meddling in the affairs of its neighbors including Haiti and Cuba began to concern American authorities.  After he tried to assassinate his biggest Latin American critic, Venezuelan President RĂłmulo Betancourt in an aerial bombing attack on his car, the U.S. had enough and the CIA began its intrigues with the potential Dominican junta.
After ten years of chaos and the intervention of the Marines, the CIA finally turned to a Truillo protĂ©gĂ©e, JoaquĂ­n Balaguer returning one of the late dictator’s puppet presidents to power as a bulwark against a Cuban style revolution.
For their part Haitians on both sides of the border remained mired in poverty, repression, and hopelessness.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Facing the Crises de Jour and of a Life Time—Murfin Verse, This Morning

Dealing with the crises du jour.


Once again our head split from the relentless assault of demoralizing news that hammers at our senses humanity and decency.  Just this weekend off of the top of my head we hear about nation-wide sweeps of Sanctuary Cities in which ICE agents are snapping up people on the street virtually at random.  There were revelations that the Injustice Department under Attorney General Jeff Sessions has subpoenaed Facebook for the private information on anyone who even visited a page belonging to a group informally facilitating the inauguration protests last January potentially ensnaring hundreds of thousands.  The same Department announced that it will argue in court that employers should have the right to fire worker who are in homosexual relationships—a reversal of policy that stretches back across both Republican and Democratic administrations. And when he can tear himself away from trying to incite mob violence against athletes, the ever more deranged Chump-in-Chief is occupying his precious time attacking the Mayor of San Juan, Puerto Rico in the midst of an unparalleled natural disaster.  And, by the way, in case you had forgotten, nuclear war could break out at any time because of hissy snit and tantrum.
You would not have to cast a stone far to hit any of a dozen other outrages.  It’s a lot.  I know, I know.  And it can be demoralizing to the point of paralysis.


But, take heart!
Four years ago in 2013 I wrote a poem and posted it here.  It was in the midst of a crisis that seemed at the time to be an overwhelming and immediate danger but in comparison to what we have endured since inauguration day seems downright quaint.  As you may dimly remember back then the Republican Congress made good on its chest beating threats to let the government shut down rather than pass a routine rise in the Debt Limit because they were in a life-and-death struggle with Barack Obama over, you know, stuff.  Experts—all of the folks who will proclaim that they know what they are talking about and the rest of us don’t know squat—were predicting dire consequences up to and including a world economic collapse that would make the Great Depression look like your mommy forgot to put a Twinkie in your lunch box.
It turned out that after a few days of tourists being turned away from the monuments and museums on the National Mall, and some needy folks had some checks delayed, the bankers who hold the paper on the Republican Party applied some judicious leverage and presto! A deal was worked out, the debt limit was raised, and everything got back, more or less, to normal, whatever the hell that is.  The President once again holding no more than a pair of deuces took the pot from McConnell and Ryan who had, you should excuse the strained metaphor, a full house.
Of course neither I nor anyone else knew the ultimate outcome that day four years ago.  So I felt compelled to speak to the situation not with stunning and astute analysis buy with a damn poem.
In my introduction to the verse that day I wrote:
Political poetry has the shelf life of sushi on a pushcart in Phoenix in August.  It has a long and ignoble history since the days when long satirical ballads were printed anonymously in partisan newspapers, through the righteous radicalism dripping with the blood of workers and peasants, to acid penned short pieces in the columns of Puck or The New Yorker.  This is none of those, but read it fast before it evaporates from your screen.
It turns out that this one recycles usefully today.  And may again in the future….if we have a future.


This Morning
October 1, 2013

The sun rose this morning
            heedless of deadlines
            of wails and curses.

But that doesn’t mean
            we must sit idle
            with Zen-like equanimity.

The dew on the grass
            invites the first foot print.

The crystal air refreshes        
            our lungs.

The wind at our backs
            pushes us to action.

What they have done,
            is done.

What we will do
            is yet unwritten.

We have but one resolve—
            not to be pawns
            on their chessboard
            anymore.

—Patrick Murfin