Only Connect: Mournful September, Packed with Civil Holidays
On Labor Day I should've put a red carnation in my lapel and posted the lyrics to the Internationale; but I have to tell you that, as beautiful as the song is, there are dicey moments (especially when Alistair Hulett exhorts the soldiers to frag their commanding officers than continue to be the tools of The Oppressor ); I did wear a red shirt and read some union-politics on line (check alicublog for a better treatment than I could've produced), but my heart wasn't completely in it, not laboring at anything at the moment; and, face it, its stirring for the first two verses but its a song that doesn't cry out to be exhausted of every note. But I did not let the moment pass without meditation.
I observed The Day Of Unspeakable Criminal Action Against Manhattan, the Pentagon, and But For The Brave Actions of Hero-Passengers-and-Flight-Attendants Might Have Been The Capitol Building But Was Instead Rural Pennsylvania by limiting my intake of media, NOT telling war stories of an event I was miles away from, and treating this part of our history the way I usually do the rest of history (VE day, VJ day, Armistice Day, Pearl Harbor Day, the explosion at the Murrah Building, the deaths in Bataan of force-marched soldiers, the deaths in Dresden and Nagasaki and Hiroshima, the sinking of the Cole, the sinking of the Sheffield, the battle of the Somme, the battle at Gettysburg, Sherman's March, the battle of Trenton . . .): I buy the paper poppy for my car steering wheel, pause a silent moment, and then move on.
But, as my Gardnerian fans know (and you know who you are), I believe there is an observance that pushes very few buttons, and, if pushed, ought to induce the correct discomfort in the correct people. I don't know exactly when women were given the right to vote, but I'm gonna sing about it today. Its a pretty song, you'll like it, even if you can't dance to it (politcal music was like that then):
Bread and Roses
As we go marching, marching
In the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens,
A thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched by all the radiance
That a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing:
"Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!"
As we go marching, marching,
We battle too, for men,
For they are women's children,
And we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated
From birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies:
Give us bread, but give us roses!
As we go marching, marching,
Unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing,
Their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty
Their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for,
But we fight for roses too!
As we go marching, marching,
We bring the greater days.
For the rising of the women
Means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idleness
That toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories:
Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!
Our lives shall not be sweated
From birth until life closes,
Hearts starve as well as bodies;
Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!
I observed The Day Of Unspeakable Criminal Action Against Manhattan, the Pentagon, and But For The Brave Actions of Hero-Passengers-and-Flight-Attendants Might Have Been The Capitol Building But Was Instead Rural Pennsylvania by limiting my intake of media, NOT telling war stories of an event I was miles away from, and treating this part of our history the way I usually do the rest of history (VE day, VJ day, Armistice Day, Pearl Harbor Day, the explosion at the Murrah Building, the deaths in Bataan of force-marched soldiers, the deaths in Dresden and Nagasaki and Hiroshima, the sinking of the Cole, the sinking of the Sheffield, the battle of the Somme, the battle at Gettysburg, Sherman's March, the battle of Trenton . . .): I buy the paper poppy for my car steering wheel, pause a silent moment, and then move on.
But, as my Gardnerian fans know (and you know who you are), I believe there is an observance that pushes very few buttons, and, if pushed, ought to induce the correct discomfort in the correct people. I don't know exactly when women were given the right to vote, but I'm gonna sing about it today. Its a pretty song, you'll like it, even if you can't dance to it (politcal music was like that then):
Bread and Roses
As we go marching, marching
In the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens,
A thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched by all the radiance
That a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing:
"Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!"
As we go marching, marching,
We battle too, for men,
For they are women's children,
And we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated
From birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies:
Give us bread, but give us roses!
As we go marching, marching,
Unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing,
Their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty
Their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for,
But we fight for roses too!
As we go marching, marching,
We bring the greater days.
For the rising of the women
Means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idleness
That toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories:
Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!
Our lives shall not be sweated
From birth until life closes,
Hearts starve as well as bodies;
Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!