Alexis Tsipras‘ Syriza party, as expected, captured control of Greece’s government this past weekend, with a crushing victory winning 149 of the 300 seats and just missing majority control without the need to form a governing coalition. While the campaign was closely followed throughout Europe by both established politicians and financiers, as well as by leftists, in the US little attention has been paid to it, perhaps because as the cliché goes about something not understood “It’s Greek to me.” In Europe, though, his victory, hailed by counterparts like Podemos in Spain, in Portugual, and in England’s often vibrant Socialist camp the big win apparently promises to provide a surge in support for similar anti-austerity and redistribution movements.

Notably, Tsipras, accused of being an atheist (among other fear mongering) during the campaign outraged aged European political leaders by rejecting the traditional religious vows and swearing-in by the country’s Greek Orthodox Archbishop and by appearing in an open-necked shirt (he has vowed not to wear a tie until he has successfully negotiated with the “Troika” which imposed extensive privitization and savage cuts in the country’s social welfare programs.  His first act as prime minister was to lay roses at a memorial to 200 Greek communists executed by the Nazis in 1944 which was interpreted both as a signal that Greece was ready to stand up to Germany’s austerity demands as well as honor the country’s left resistance.

Tsipras, whom European financiers and officials had predicted would “move to the center” after being elected, were more stunned and frightened by his forming the needed coalition not with moderate parties but with the rightwing party Independent Greeks (known as Anel) which won less than 5% of the vote.  Like Syriza,  Anel has demanded higher taxes on the country’s oligarchs, along with more rigorous tax collection from the rich, an end to widespread corruption, limits on moving wealth out of Greece, and a rejection  of the country’s subjugation to German demands (which it has linked to the German nazi past).  

Anel, meanwhile, not unlike most social right-wingers in the US, is anti-immigrant, strongly religious, anti-gay, and at times anti-Semitic. But that linkage to join in a governing majority communicated Tsipras intention to pursue his anti-austerity and redistribution principles as the dominant theme of his new government.

Standing up to Europe’s governing elite and financiers won’t be easy for Syriza.  He is somewhat hemmed in by the desire of most Greeks to continue in the Euro zone. But this victory, and Tsipras’ initial moves to ignore contradictions on social policies and ideologies and coalesce with a strong anti-austerity, anti-financial group is a lesson for other countries, as it should be here in the US.

As an English friend and union activist and Socialist wrote me “Syriza and Podemos are partly offspring of the Arab revolutions in 2010 and I know that developments in Greece, where the Euro working class has been most savagely hit, will be closely watched. Wouldn’t hurt other more distant lefties to pay attention into class, now would it!”

The henna tattoos are fading from my hands but the enchanting memories of my recent trip to India are not. The blurring henna is a reminder that I spent seven days in the exotic state of Rajasthan, and the city of Udaipur, the “Venice of the East” as it is known in India. Family and friends had gathered to celebrate the “love marriage” with all the ceremony of a traditional “arranged marriage” of our young friends from “the East,” the bride from Mumbai, India and the groom from Boston, Mass.

There were many unforgettable moments. The groom travelled by elephant, a traditional custom, with both families as his entourage to greet his bride. The bride was lovely and stunning four days in a row as she greeted her blushing groom. Also, there were the larger than life palatial venues such as the City Palace, a fusion of Rajasthani and Mughal architectural styles where the Sangeet event, traditionally the bachelorette party was transformed into an international talent show. In contrast to the epic wedding there were local village scenes that were so mind-twisting I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. These were visual images that at first glance didn’t make sense. Images so raw they moved my heart and awakened my soul.

These were the women who lived and worked in and around the Pichola Lake Village. Draped in a neon colored or print patterned sari unique as every woman was elegant and beautiful. The fluorescent hues were as stunning as the dark side of women’s forecasted future was bleak in this male-dominated society.

Not once in the seven days did I see the same sari or combination of sari fabric worn. It was as though each sari was created for each of the 600 million plus women on the sub-continent, including women performing hard physical labor. Yes! Women toiling at work digging ditches waist deep, laying bricks, or maintaining streets were wearing beautiful saris. Eye-popping fluorescent greens, yellows, oranges, reds blues and hues of every shade. And different combinations of fabric, such as silk, chiffons, cottons, crepe georgette and bold prints gave new meaning to “brilliant” and “style”.

While I felt sheer terror thinking that I was going to die riding in an auto-rickshaw, it became apparent how relatively “safe” I was compared to the women working in the streets. As they worked in the trenches, there were no orange cones to alert the chaotic traffic that there were WORKERS AHEAD! It was easy to imagine women being maimed or accidently strangled by flowing cloth. Work, women’s work, dignified work; women laboring and thriving in beautiful saris.

When asked why women wear saris when doing hard physical labor, a young woman retail worker said that it is customary to wear them no matter what a woman’s occupation. In the same conversation she mentioned that wearing the sari was not without controversy. When worn traditionally, a portion of the woman’s midriff flesh is typically exposed thus potentially inviting male sexual advances. In addition, desirable or not, the 6-9 meters of fabric could become a hazardous liability even “life threatening” in a tangled domestic dispute. In a society where the mortality rate for young girls 1-5 years old is 75% higher than young boys- how much more dangerous can a sari be?

Having been instructed on how to wear my own sari, I could relate to it fitting as tight as a lover’s hold. Elegance notwithstanding, its tightness can be stifling, cumbersome and somewhat oppressive! The sari wraps over and around a fitted waist-to-floor petticoat that matches its color. In addition, there is a choli, a tightly fitted short blouse worn under the sari that dates back to the 10th Century. The sari colors, prints and degree of rhinestone dazzle are a matter of the taste and desire of the buyer. Last but not least are the many safety pins. These magically hold the yards of pleated fabric strategically together with the effect being the ultimate in grace and dignity.

The little time I wore the sari and watching women manage them taught me how attentive one must be, especially newbies. My anxiety prompted a nightmare in which I dreamt my sari did unravel like a spinning top with the first misstep while dancing. Imagine my surprise when a party sofa collapsed underneath me the very next night. Later when my Son told me I had landed as gently as the sinking Titanic, I was secretly pleased I hadn’t worn my sari that night!

However, the most unforgettable memory was the visual contrast of luxury inside the palace hotel compared to the squalor and poverty outside the hotel walls. I imagined this is the type of contrast that Siddhartha Gautama, the historical Buddha from the 5th or 6th century BC must have seen when he ventured outside his palace walls. Siddhartha was a young prince, forbidden by his nobleman father to go outside the family’s palace, ever. As might be expected this unreasonable demand fed his natural curiosity even as a young child and he eventually rebelled and secretly leaves. What he discovers is disturbing, confusing, and exciting. He is witness to suffering heretofore unknown to him, and chaos, or is it chaos? Profoundly moved by what he sees, feels, whom he meets and what he learns Siddhartha renounces his birthright and begins his spiritual journey of self-discovery.

As we journeyed into the Pichola Lake Village in the “Tuk Tuk” (auto-rickshaw) for the first time, the comparisons between the palace hotel and shanty dwellings were obvious- The Third World abutting The First World.

The contrasts in India are like that, starkly black and white with opulence up close to devastating poverty, sleeping side-by-side, dependent on each other, and their unequal embrace. Inside our pristine palace hotel were Olympic pools, a luxury spa staffed by cheap labor from Bhutan, doting staff, abundant Indian cuisine, and sprawling manicured grounds. Outside there were cows and bulls eating from heaps of foul smelling trash dumped on the side of the road as dogs lay sunbathing on the same fly-ridden waste. Mounds of plastic-riddled trash were being burned within feet of huts, shanty’s, open-air markets, and pedestrians without apparent concern for citizens being exposed to the toxic smoke and gases. There was human and animal waste on the streets and the water was rarely potable. Drivers were shooing begging children away from our Tuk Tuk . These were children whose vacant eyes, bare and swollen feet, and open palms betrayed their caste and fate in life.

Outside the palace hotel was a breathtaking and totally sensual experience, inexplicably alive and resilient yet juxtaposed with the sobering realization that the crushing disparities between the haves and have-nots are very much alive in India.

Son for Pop Boy for Cop
McCulloch’s
Pop
Killed by a Black Man

McSpadden’s
Son
Killed by a Cop

Was some BASE justice done
In the death of this young one?

The People knew
McCulloch’s hue

and that

Prosecution
Possessed THE
Power

Doubt
Demanded he
Defer

He
Refused
to
Recuse

Decision
Done
on
Day One
______________________

Missouri
Missouri
Misery
Tragedy
Turns
Typical
Uproar
of
Hope
Destroyed
Detrimental
Disillusionment
Rage
at
Despair
Brown
Black
Broken
Justice
System(ic)
Injustice
Dread Mike
Dred Scott
Legacy
Lives
Leaves
Misery
in
Missouri
______________________

Forget me Not
Ferguson
will not
Forget

but

America
is ever
Amnesic
______________________

Mass Machine was a classic “hot shop”. In labor parlance “hot shop’ indicates a workplace where the issues and the anger is such that the workers want change and the task of the organizer is to give voice, understanding and organization to that “heat” so that the workers can form a union. It took a worker losing a digit under a repeating punch press to spark the heat, but the dissatisfaction with the wages and the abusive treatment of supervisors were longstanding. Mass Machine (MM) was not a big shop, 60 total workers in tool and die, maintenance, production, shipping and receiving and the sweeper, all working one shift. Unlike workplaces with hundreds of workers, multiple shifts, buildings and departments, MM was very manageable for four organizers!

That did not mean that the challenges of language, race, fear and uncertainty were not there. In some ways the 60-person shop was a good learning microcosm for young and inexperienced organizers like my comrades and me. The winning formula was simple: unite the Italians and Puerto Ricans and split the white ethnics, mostly Irish American. The Puerto Ricans were very united and their leader was Luis Collazo, who had been in the USA for a while and was from Ponce, PR. He sported what we used to call a classic D.A. (Duck’s Ass) haircut enriched with shiny gel. He was respected as a high production worker and commanded the loyalty of his Boricua brothers.

The Italians and Puerto Ricans generally had a playful relationship somewhat based on the fact that their languages were very similar. I worked side by side with Miguel Santos, a young Puerto Rican also Ponceno. Miguel spoke no English and I spoke no Spanish at that time. He spoke to me in a considerably decelerated Spanish and I responded in my Italian standard. We did fine. I can’t say I did as well initially with the Italians. They all spoke either Beneventino or Avellinese, the dialects from their cities and villages out side of Naples. That was a foreign language for me, far more foreign than Puerto Rican Spanish. But Sabado, a younger worker from Benevento, who spoke Italian standard and Neapolitan dialect, became a friend, and he was able to galvanize the Italians. He even wrote a flyer in Italian ripping the company’s disrespectful treatment of workers: “Per quanto tempo ci facciamo essere trattati come bestie, che sono chiamate alle 7:00 e rilasciate a pastoreggiare alle 4:30” (how long are we going to allow ourselves to be treated like beasts of burden called to work at 7 and then let out pasture at 4:30). I think the pastoral metaphor resonated well with the Italian cohort.

In the run up to the election in late June we used a lot of flyers. Our newsletter was called the Workers Voice of MMS or La Voce Operaia di MMS. At this time there was no Voz Obrera en Espanol because nobody in our team spoke Spanish. But the Puerto Rican workers told me not to worry that they were doing fine with the Italian and kind of enjoyed it. Later we published full-page newsletters in all three languages with detail on the major happenings in the facility. The workers looked forward to the newsletters and especially the famous Fred Wright UE cartoons (here, here and here). The newsletters were probably overkill in a factory of 60 workers because there is no paper substitute for face-to-face conversation in organizing. We organized in the grungy bar on Northampton Street; that’s where a lot of the most senior workers, mostly Irish American hung out. The Italians had me over to Sabado’s house for an evening discussion prior to the election at their home in Hyde Park. Meetings away from work with the Puerto Ricans were held at Lechoneria Los Reyes under the Orange Line elevated at the Egleston stop.

Election day came for the UE Union on June 28, 1973. A National Labor Relations Board (NLRB) election day and the vote count is one of the most cathartic rituals in American working life. Casting aside the obstacle course of company threats and promises leading up to the election, the actual election ritual itself is chock full of emotion and pathos regardless who wins.

Each side chooses an observer to witness the actual balloting. The Company chooses a worker from the proposed bargaining unit. If the company chooses someone that the Union has been counting on as a union supporter let alone a core organizing committee member that is an ominous sign. At Mass Machine, the company chose a trusted “company man” who we had not seen as a supporter. I was chosen to be the UE observer because of my relationship to the Italians who were considered the swing vote. The observer is charged with challenging any voter who they believe is not eligible to vote. Often the Company will mobilize laid off workers or supervisors to vote. In the case of Mass Machine the workforce was so small that there was not much room for chicanery.

The observer is not supposed to speak to voters so I was focused on body language and making eye contact as a way to divine the votes. One of the older Italian workers who I was friendly with received his ballot and as he faced me on the way to the voting booth erupted in to a full-bore Fascist salute ala Mussolini. I took that as a good omen!

The vote count is excruciating no matter how many times you experience it in workforces large and small. In the case of Mass Machine the voting took less than one half hour and then everyone gathered in the company lunchroom for the count. The owner, David Knights was there with his attorney Alan Tepper and several other management personnel including Pat Caizzi, the Italian American floor boss. Our UE organizer, Michael Eisenscher and almost all the workers were in the room. The NLRB government agent dumps the ballots on the table and sorts the Yes and the No ballots. Then the agent holds up each ballot and calls out Yes or No. As the count proceeds everyone is waiting for one side or another to get to the majority of the votes cast. Once that number is exceeded the winning side erupts in often joyous screaming and cheering. At MMS most of the workers broke into cheers and David Knights cast an angry glance at Pat Caizzi and left the room in a hurry. We celebrated in the lunchroom and quickly moved to the bar on Northampton for drinks all around.

We had won the vote 39-20. I later learned from poor Pat Caizzi that he had told the owner that he had the Italians by the “coglioni” and that they would vote as he told them to. The Italians voted en masse for the union, and we had our victory. Caizzi admitted to me later that he was happy that the Union had come in. It made his job a lot easier and he got a pay raise.

Next Organizing in the heat of Boston August for a First Contract at Mass Machine.

RICHMOND, CA. 
Election day, 2014, was not ending well for Nat Bates, a mayoral candidate in this largely non-white city of 100,000 long dominated by Chevron. The small crowd of supporters gathered in his storefront campaign headquarters on Macdonald Avenue was beginning to look rather glum. The big box cake, with white icing and lettering proclaiming Bates to be “Our Mayor,” remained unwrapped.

The 83-year old African-American Democrat, who has been Big Oil’s best friend on the city council, had every reason to expect early returns much better than the numbers his campaign manager was posting on the wall by 10:30 p.m. on Tuesday evening.

For many weeks, Richmond voters have been bombarded with full-color brochures touting Bates’ four decades of business friendly leadership. His final mailer listed more than fifty local ministers as campaign supporters. They were joined by U.S. Senator Dianne Feinstein, former San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown, Contra Costa County Building Trades leaders, Richmond police and firefighters’ unions, and the Chamber of Commerce.

Nat Bates gazed down on the citizenry from countless billboards, like a ubiquitous successor to “Big Brother” in George Orwell’s dystopian novel, 1984.  His ads popped up on the inter-net, on local TV and radio stations; large numbers of Richmond voters got YouTube videos featuring his homilies. On election day, the Bates campaign—or Moving Forward, Chevron’s PAC– deployed paid canvassers and sign-holders, plus free rides to the polls. An impressive number of Richmond residents sported “Bates for Mayor” signs on their lawn.

Most helpful of all, Moving Forward spent much of its $3.1 million budget attacking candidates fielded by the 10-year old Richmond Progressive Alliance (RPA). (For details on Big Oil’s carpet-bombing of the electorate with green-and red-baiting mailers)  Banding together as “Team Richmond,” termed-out Mayor Gayle McLaughlin, Vice-Mayor Jovanka Beckles, and Planning Commissioner Eduardo Martinez urged voters to create a stronger progressive majority in city government by electing their slate, Tom Butt for mayor, and Jael Myrick to a fourth open council seat. RPA refuses to accept any donations from business, large or small. While frequently allied with RPA members on key council issues, like making Chevron’s Richmond refinery safer, Butt and Myrick have yet to take that pledge.

A Richmond Rattlesnake

The scale of Chevron’s spending–to defeat low-budget municipal candidates–was so jaw-dropping that it drew national media attention. From Bay Area newspapers and The L.A. Times to Bill Moyers and Rachel Maddow and a visiting U.S. Senator from Vermont, Bernie Sanders, everyone agreed that Richmond was ground zero for corporate-funded negative campaigning in the post-Citizens United era. Maddow, among others, feared that Big Oil’s unrestricted spending here would be “crude but effective.”

Meanwhile, as they have done in previous election cycles, friends of Nat Bates in the Black American Political Action Committee (BAPAC), the Richmond Business PAC, and a group called Black Men and Women (BMW) joined the hit-piece pile-on, in more low profile fashion. One of their mailers derided the RPA slate, Butt, and Myrick as the “Richmond Plantation Alliance”—even though 3 of the 5 candidates so described are black and/or Latino. BAPAC urged voters to elect the “independent thinkers” financed by Chevron instead.

This same pro-Bates coalition sent out a brochure, with a coiled and hissing snake on the cover; it warned Richmond voters to “Beware of this Arkansas Rattlesnake” (aka the Arkansas-born Butt). Pre-election website postings by BAPAC strongly implied that Butt, a local architect and Vietnam veteran, was a white racist who cares little about poor people and only looks out for himself and “his elitist, wealthy friends”

By October 30, Butt’s mainly small donors had raised about $60,000 for him. Even with an additional $25,000 in local public matching funds, his total campaign spending will be one-thirtieth of what Chevron spent on Bates & Co. Chevron’s failed investment in re-taking city hall works out to about $72 per registered voter–and far more if actual turn-out is calculated instead. Either way, that’s a drop in the bucket for a global company with $21 billion in profits last year. As for having “wealthy, elitist friends,” I bet that Chevron CEO John Watson, a Richmond native but current resident of San Ramon, counts far more in his social circle than Tom Butt because Watson’s total compensation was $24 million last year.

A Martyr Like Malcolm?

By 11 pm on election night, neither Bates nor Corky Booze, Nat’s city council ally, were pleased with the way things were trending. They each faced humiliating defeat, by growing margins, in their respective races with Butt and Myrick. With half of Richmond’s precincts reporting, other council candidates backed by Big Oil or real estate interest groups were also losing to “Team Richmond.” As the mounting vote totals for RPA members McLaughlin, Beckles, and Martinez were announced, there were audible groans, gasps of dismay, or cries of “Oh my God.”

A man in a football jersey insisted that “it’s just half time–we’re going to come on back in the third quarter.” With his friend Nat slumped wearily in a chair a few feet away, looking deflated in the harsh florescent lighting of the storefront, Booze didn’t foresee any second half rally by Team Bates. Instead, Corky began spin-doctoring about the RPA’s unexpected success. “I truly believe that the amount of money Chevron spent made them beneficiaries of a sympathy vote, “ the Richmond junkyard owner told me. “Chevron did not play this game right. When you attack people, they get a sympathy vote.”

Coming from someone much criticized for his own disruptive bullying, city council filibustering, homophonic hectoring, and general hostility toward female colleagues, Corky’s post-election reflections were long on self-pity and short on personal insight. “They made me the bad guy—this big black man attacking the little white lady,” Corky complained. “Gayle [McLaughlin] acts like the little old lady next door no matter how mean she is.”

Booze did credit the RPA with a strong ground campaign, if one over-reliant on volunteers he claimed were imported from Berkeley and Oakland. “The progressive group started campaigning a year and a half ago,” he noted. “The RPA was very serious…they played very dirty with me and Nat. They had 8 or 9 people at every polling place, handing out slate cards, with a special emphasis on people who couldn’t speak English.” According to Corky, the net result is that Richmond “has turned into Berkeley 100%.”

As the gloom deepened at Bates headquarters, Corky ratcheted up his martyrdom routine. “There’s no place for a guy like me because I’m too outspoken,” he lamented. “You won’t know what I’ve done for this city until I’m gone…I kind of feel like Malcolm X. No one will realize what I’ve done until I’m killed off.”

Not long afterwards, Bates himself gave a slightly more graceful concession speech. He nevertheless managed to imply that, because of low African-American voter turnout on Tuesday, his own community had let him down. In the meantime, Booze was expressing his personal sympathy for Bates, who will now be serving out the remainder of his four-year council term as a lone voice for Big Oil. “I feel sorry for Nat. This is his last go-round and he is going to be miserable. They’re going to destroy him and I don’t think he deserves that. Just remember, Tom Butt is a very vindictive guy.”

A Bash In The Baltic

At Butt’s post-election bash, there was little speechifying but the mood was much more celebratory. The news there was, of course, good, not bad. About 1:30 in the morning, available totals showed Butt winning with 51% of 11,000 ballots counted. Bates was running second with 35%. And, a third mayoral candidate, Uche Justin Uwahemu got nearly 13%–although he did not tip the election to Butt by “dividing the black vote”–as local critics of Black Women Organized for Political Action claimed after BWOPA endorsed the lawyer, management consultant, and immigrant from Nigeria, rather than Nat.

As BWOPA president Kathleen Sullivan told me earlier in the day, at a polling place where she was stumping for Uwahemu, “I’m so tired of people trying to run the race card all the time. Folks in Richmond just want something different.” (For final totals in this and other Richmond races)

Tom Butt’s victory party was held in the Point Richmond section of the city, which is the new mayor’s home turf.  There under the low ceilings of a century old tavern known as The Baltic, the usually laconic Butt was having the last laugh—and dance—with the help of a catchy tune concocted by several musical friends. Entitled “The Arkansas Rattlesnake,” this campaign song cleverly embraced BAPAC’s negative branding, added a driving snare drum beat, and vocals punctuated by exuberant “hee-haws.”

The Butt campaign’s hillbilly ditty lampoons Bates for having “so much oil on him, he can get through every doorway in town.” As friends, neighbors, and volunteers for Butt began to drift out after midnight, the song’s musical refrain was still booming throughout the dimly-lit bar:

“I am ‘The Arkansas Rattlesnake,’ living in your town.
I’m just trying to stop Chevron from burning the whole place down.
I am ‘The Arkansas Rattlesnake,’ doing the best I can, trying to help the folks in Richmond get over that Nate Bates man.
I am ‘The Arkansas Rattlesnake,’ crawling on the ground cause those folks from Chevron are trying to put me down.
I know the good folks of our city won’t let that deal go down.
You got ‘The Arkansas Rattlesnake,’ you got the best around!”
 
In an email message to supporters on Wednesday morning, Butt professed to be “genuinely surprised” at his victory He noted that he trailed Bates by nearly 2,000 votes when both sought re-election on the city council two years ago—and the RPA lost its bid for two council seats. Butt credited this year’s success to a collaborative effort with the RPA that mobilized “voters turned off by Chevron, impressed with the remarkable progress Richmond has made in recent years, and tired of City Council meeting disruptions” aimed at discrediting that body’s now expanded and reinvigorated progressive majority.