May Day
Si se puede! Si se puede! Yes it can be done! Yes it can be done!
On May 1, I walked with immigrants, day laborers, anarchists, teachers, women’s rights activists, communists and children. Some were protesting our nation’s immigration and deportation policies, some wanted to send a message to Arizona and Wisconsin, some just wanted a better life for all.
In Los Angeles, the thousands of protestors joined brethren in Indonesia, Germany, South Korea, Colombia, Turkey, Portugal, and many others around the world, in the traditional May Day call for workers’ rights.
These mostly peaceful, but sometimes violent, demonstrations started in 1886 to commemorate those killed in Chicago when police opened fire on a gathering of laborers, artisans, merchants and immigrants. The group was protesting for an eight-hour day, bathroom breaks and a living wage, things most of us take for granted, and instead of a stern reprimand for police brutality, the government handed four anarchists a death sentence.
Although 12 people died as a result of the attack by police, eight members of the demonstration were openly tried for their political beliefs and the resultant public hanging caused outrage around the globe. Since this incident, referred to as the “Haymarket Affair”, May 1 has become an international celebration of the social and economic achievements of the labor movement. But because of its association with Communism (and thus the Soviet Union), Congress designated May 1 as “Loyalty Day,” in 1958 and moved Labor Day to September. It’s funny how fear can dictate policy.
On May 1, I walked over a mile through the center of downtown with a sign that read, “We are not Arizona. We are not Wisconsin. We are California.” I chose to march in the May Day demonstration for two reasons. First, I genuinely believe that our country has a long history of fearing and punishing those who do not reflect our idea of what it means to be “American”. And second, the protest of Orange County Councilwoman, Marilyn Davenport, had already occurred.
I didn’t know what to expect and was a little nervous to show up by myself, but my fellow protestors accepted me with open arms. The march was already well underway by the time I parked my car a few blocks from Broadway and as I approached the chanting river of people, I must have looked lost. I didn’t know what to do.
I’d never been a part of a public protest before, so I just stared at those walking, dancing, and yelling through the street, wondering, “What’s the protocol here?” “Do I pick up one of the signs at my feet and just start walking?” “Do I need to walk with a specific group?” “Do I need to ask permission to join their fight?”
My inner monologue must have displayed freely on my face because a woman with kind eyes touched my arm, handed me a sign and gave me a wordless, “It’s ok,” as she led me into the crowd. I merged into traffic with a group of indigenous dancers in full costume, and after half a block, they stopped to perform.
I watched them snake through the throngs of people until a large area opened up and I stood in solidarity as they stomped, twirled and shook in unison. I was particularly moved by one dancer—an older woman with long, thick, silver hair and a beaklike nose. She seemed to plead with each drumbeat and her entire body moved with passion and grief. I wanted to yell, “I’ll champion your cause! Whatever you need, just tell me!” Instead, I chose silent support.
I stayed with the dancers, marching when they marched, stopping when they stopped, and when we reached the dead-end of a stage, the protestors dispersed. Some walked to their cars, some took a brief respite in the shade of a tree, and the rest waited patiently for further inspiration.
In the largely Hispanic and Asian crowd, there were small pockets of white and African American union workers, teachers and anarchists in black, and my favorite-- the students. In their ripped skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts, they were glowing in their ideals and handing out flyers in support of communism and socialism. They were so passionate in their cause their voices were hoarse.
I felt like saying, “I remember that feeling.” I remember being 22 and so convinced I knew everything. “Big Business” and “Corporate America” were evil; Republicans (or anyone who wore a suit) were the enemy. I remember thinking you could survive on beliefs alone. But then I grew up. Unfortunately, the world has a system and unless you learn to work within it, you are pushed to fringe and marginalized in the worst way.
The speakers ranged from union leaders to local activists, and then the most powerful of voices took the stage. He was a Latino teenager wearing his high school commencement robe and cap, and he spoke on how our country’s immigration policies ripped his family apart.
His parents and sister emigrated from Mexico before he was born, got jobs, rented a house, and two years after they settled in Los Angeles, he was born. His parents worked hard and contributed to their community, but when they repeatedly applied for citizenship, they were denied. He made the point that his parents held jobs citizens wouldn’t take, and they worked for pay so far below minimum wage, their participation could only help the economy, not hurt it. When he was about to enter high school, his parents and sister were deported back to Mexico and he was sent to live with relatives.
His memories were heartbreaking and I couldn’t help the lump in my throat or the tears on my cheeks. It made think, “There has to be a better way.” He will go to community college in the fall and work, so that he can save up to transfer to a four-year university. Then he plans to become a lawyer and fight for the rights of his parents and all immigrants who call America home.
I left the protest sad and inspired. I was sad that our country of immigrants continues to repeat our history of marginalizing the newcomer. We’ve done it to the Irish, the Italians, the Jews, the Africans, the Japanese, the “Communists”, the Latinos, and our most recent target of hate, the Arabs and Muslims. We even punished the Native Americans when we were the newcomers.
Despite my embarrassment at our inherited history, the hope in the graduate’s voice and on the faces around me was inspiring. I believe that we as a country can do better. I believe that we are capable of treating those within and without our borders with the respect and love that all human beings deserve. I believe that we are smart enough to come up with a viable solution to illegal immigration without terrorizing communities and tearing families apart. I believe that our bankrupt states can balance their budgets while ensuring everyone has a voice.
I may have retained some of those ideals from my twenties, and I’m glad that I have. America, we are better than this. So let’s be better. Let’s put down our baggage and the hang-ups from our youth; the dogma of our parent’s generation and the slights experienced at the hand of a lesser human being. Let’s all come to the table empty-handed because there’s enough of the pie for everyone.
Si se puede! Si se puede! Yes it can be done! Yes it can be done!
In Los Angeles, the thousands of protestors joined brethren in Indonesia, Germany, South Korea, Colombia, Turkey, Portugal, and many others around the world, in the traditional May Day call for workers’ rights.
These mostly peaceful, but sometimes violent, demonstrations started in 1886 to commemorate those killed in Chicago when police opened fire on a gathering of laborers, artisans, merchants and immigrants. The group was protesting for an eight-hour day, bathroom breaks and a living wage, things most of us take for granted, and instead of a stern reprimand for police brutality, the government handed four anarchists a death sentence.
Although 12 people died as a result of the attack by police, eight members of the demonstration were openly tried for their political beliefs and the resultant public hanging caused outrage around the globe. Since this incident, referred to as the “Haymarket Affair”, May 1 has become an international celebration of the social and economic achievements of the labor movement. But because of its association with Communism (and thus the Soviet Union), Congress designated May 1 as “Loyalty Day,” in 1958 and moved Labor Day to September. It’s funny how fear can dictate policy.
I didn’t know what to expect and was a little nervous to show up by myself, but my fellow protestors accepted me with open arms. The march was already well underway by the time I parked my car a few blocks from Broadway and as I approached the chanting river of people, I must have looked lost. I didn’t know what to do.
I’d never been a part of a public protest before, so I just stared at those walking, dancing, and yelling through the street, wondering, “What’s the protocol here?” “Do I pick up one of the signs at my feet and just start walking?” “Do I need to walk with a specific group?” “Do I need to ask permission to join their fight?”
My inner monologue must have displayed freely on my face because a woman with kind eyes touched my arm, handed me a sign and gave me a wordless, “It’s ok,” as she led me into the crowd. I merged into traffic with a group of indigenous dancers in full costume, and after half a block, they stopped to perform.
I stayed with the dancers, marching when they marched, stopping when they stopped, and when we reached the dead-end of a stage, the protestors dispersed. Some walked to their cars, some took a brief respite in the shade of a tree, and the rest waited patiently for further inspiration.
I felt like saying, “I remember that feeling.” I remember being 22 and so convinced I knew everything. “Big Business” and “Corporate America” were evil; Republicans (or anyone who wore a suit) were the enemy. I remember thinking you could survive on beliefs alone. But then I grew up. Unfortunately, the world has a system and unless you learn to work within it, you are pushed to fringe and marginalized in the worst way.
The speakers ranged from union leaders to local activists, and then the most powerful of voices took the stage. He was a Latino teenager wearing his high school commencement robe and cap, and he spoke on how our country’s immigration policies ripped his family apart.
His parents and sister emigrated from Mexico before he was born, got jobs, rented a house, and two years after they settled in Los Angeles, he was born. His parents worked hard and contributed to their community, but when they repeatedly applied for citizenship, they were denied. He made the point that his parents held jobs citizens wouldn’t take, and they worked for pay so far below minimum wage, their participation could only help the economy, not hurt it. When he was about to enter high school, his parents and sister were deported back to Mexico and he was sent to live with relatives.
I left the protest sad and inspired. I was sad that our country of immigrants continues to repeat our history of marginalizing the newcomer. We’ve done it to the Irish, the Italians, the Jews, the Africans, the Japanese, the “Communists”, the Latinos, and our most recent target of hate, the Arabs and Muslims. We even punished the Native Americans when we were the newcomers.
Despite my embarrassment at our inherited history, the hope in the graduate’s voice and on the faces around me was inspiring. I believe that we as a country can do better. I believe that we are capable of treating those within and without our borders with the respect and love that all human beings deserve. I believe that we are smart enough to come up with a viable solution to illegal immigration without terrorizing communities and tearing families apart. I believe that our bankrupt states can balance their budgets while ensuring everyone has a voice.
I may have retained some of those ideals from my twenties, and I’m glad that I have. America, we are better than this. So let’s be better. Let’s put down our baggage and the hang-ups from our youth; the dogma of our parent’s generation and the slights experienced at the hand of a lesser human being. Let’s all come to the table empty-handed because there’s enough of the pie for everyone.
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