I am entering my twenty-fifth year, I’ve recently become comfortable openly identifying as queer.
Simultaneously our fellow countrymen democratically elected to do away with democracy and let come what may…. And what will likely come is more attacks against us for who and what we are. They’ve already been happening for years.
The tendency in all of human history has been towards liberation and liberatory efforts, towards lighting the darkness around us. We will survive, because together we are indomitable. Just as we always have and always will, we shall overcome. My queer family, we will not be moved nor brought to ground, because our existence is resistance.
I wrote this poem to capture some of my feelings regarding being queer in America right now.
The Longest Night
The sun has begun setting upon our backs.
As the sun sets and inky shadows nip at our heels;
as we hunker down and prepare for another long cold night,
always remember
All That We Have
Is Each Other.
We will build a fire to drive out the darkness and stave off the cold.
We will build a roof to keep the rain and snow from falling upon our brows.
We will build four walls to keep the driving winds from landing upon our backs.
We will build a floor so that none need sleep in the dirt,
a garden so none need go hungry,
a life so that all may live.
As the sun begins to rise again
and the radianceof the day once again suffuses us in her warmth
we will build a world in which we no longer need concern ourselves with fire or shelter.
It is the American Way to work a long hard day Break your body for the boss So you can earn a measly wage Whether you’re as green as moss Or worn & weathered like a rock You’ll always say “I’m doing fine” Get back to work, no overtime! This is the American Way
It is the American Way To strike it rich one fateful day Then you say I’ve got mine To leave your fellow workers behind The only way to get our share To lift each other out of our despair Is come together in solidarity Workers of the world, we shall be free This doesn’t have to be, The American Way
No more wages that equal poverty No more work without dignity We will not be fodder for your feeder When they ask who’s in charge We’ll respond “We are all leaders!” But for now we play our cards The hand we’re dealt however hard We all know the boss is a cheater Because that’s just The American Way
It will be the American Way To bring our workplace democracy The owning class will soon see All the workers together form A force stronger than a roaring storm The chains of debt and wage slavery Will be brought to their demise Right before our very eyes With the new American Way
Originally published on Medium: https://medium.com/@j.dinsmore/the-american-way-f213df50880f
The shop was like a sweat box, The heat was ninety-three. I had a little grievance, As anyone could see.
I went to see the foreman And called to him by name. I asked him could he open up That nailed-down window pane? But my boss said, “It’s out of my hands.”
I asked to see my steward, And the boss he did agree. But for two more days, nor hide nor hair Of either did I see.
I finally caught the foreman As he was running by. He said my message was delivered To the proper guy. And now it was out of his hands.
The steward, when I saw him, Looked both shrewd and wise, And told me how much more there was Than seemed to meet the eyes.
He quoted several clauses, Interpretations too. Said that writing up a grievance Was all that he could do. Then it was out of his hands.
The Committeeman next came around, Him I had never met. The rest is strictly rumor For I haven’t met him yet.
But the story, when I got it, At third or second hand, After many weeks of waiting, I was made to understand- It was out of his hands.
The next thing that I heard of, Through the grapevine, tried and true, It had reached the shop committee, They’d see what they could do.
The days were getting shorter, And fall was drawing near, When the long-delayed decision I finally got to hear. It was out of their hands.
I wish I could say That this ended my ditty But my case was referred To the Screening Committee.
I was told I was lucky, After months had gone by That my grievance had not Just been left there to die. But it was now out of their hands.
The Umpire considered And pondered and thought. He was honest and upright And could not be bought.
Of the one hundred grievances We lost ninety-nine, But the one that was salvaged Turned out to be mine.
The window was opened On a cold wintry day. I shivered and shook Till I thought I’d give way.
I went to the foreman And called him by name, And asked him to shut That damned window pane. But he said, “It’s out my hands.”
Martin Glaberman was an autoworker and Marxist historian. He wrote much about effective unionism based on his experiences in the workforce.
