Excerpt: Taiwan's Wilting Sunflowers

“Emerson, I need you to take down your Facebook post. I am NOT public as an IWW member in China and it endangers me and others to post about my involvement in the IWW in this way. Please take down or make the post private now!” Mr. Ferric Mole, a man of twenty-five, younger than he thought himself to be, had blond streaks of hair swept to a side in his Facebook picture, a quizzical pose, slightly drunk-looking, slightly weary about a world he thought he knew but really did know not much about, outside of his inflamed imagination. He would have been a great model for ‘office yuppie’ in another lifetime; the guy at the water cooler sharing negative gossip about his office competitor to his clique. His e-mails were full of flagrant bullshit. To say he meant nothing to any government was a gross exaggeration. Emerson had run into his kind of inflated self-importance many times in the IWW.

     A month later, Fellow Worker Ferric Mole had a softening of heart; he saw what Emerson had accomplished in Taiwan. He wrote back: “Hi Fellow Worker, I saw things are coming together with the IWW in Taiwan! That's great news! I wanted to get in touch to see if you would be up for having a conference call with other Wobblies in East Asia. If so, I can try to get one together. I am hoping we can have some kind of meeting next year; the energy of one group can encourage the others. I don’t know what I can do here in Mainland China. I can’t mention any names but I am connected to labor activists here. I want to see if I could invite a few from your group to visit and meet me and activists here. I live in Guangzhou, which is close to Hong Kong," like anyone in Taiwan wouldn’t know. “Would you be interested in coming to visit and meet activists here?” Sure, Emerson thought, if you paid me and you weren’t so full of crap.

      "I'd like to make it to Taiwan this fall, if you're up for it.” Emerson was trembling with excitement. “I would have stopped there on my way to China, but I thought it would be more politically sensitive to stop in Taiwan afterwards,” like anyone in China would care, thought Emerson. 

“Hi Chum: I finally meet Calcutta, He-Haw, and Pee-Wee, two of them Wobblies. We made up to meet again soon after the rigging from GHQ finally arrives.” Emerson had to hold himself down to contain his enthusiasm.

      “We spent over three hours in Dante’s coffee shop discussing the IWW. I ended up doing most of the talking as I answered their questions about organizing in Taiwan. They talked about how they had been active pushing for recognition of workers' rights for workers who seemed to resent their help. I pointed out that we should let the workers come to us who want to organize their work place but we should agitate workers and show solidarity to them in demonstrations. The first step was organizing in our own work places. He-Haw, who works in a small crew for a documentary producer, shouldn’t consider him a friend since he is a boss with power to hire, fire, and pay. He-Haw should ask for an increase in salary. I was just making a point.”

      “We touched on all subjects. Someone had asked if I was affiliated with the NYC branch anymore.” Back in New York, Binge Henchman read this, he questioned what Emerson had said. What he told them was, “I wasn’t because a Dante ‘Union’ job-shop was eating up GMB funds.” He told Henchman he left because he was moving to Taiwan; no sense in making the fool angry, Emerson thought. In fact he explained how Ry Grossinger jumped the gun by filing with the NLRB for recognition before getting a super majority at Dante’s. Emerson knew it would make the union lose the election. He wrote on to Chum, “I told my three fellow workers in Taiwan that we shouldn’t look for stardom as Grossinger had because of the conditions of no government union protection.” They had to be clandestine there, he emphasized. “There is apathy from workers and gangster-ism from bosses,” he concluded. “We really must let the workers come to us.”.

      “I gave Calcutta and He-Haw some gifts on behalf of the IWW and lent them the Kerr IWW Anthology I brought from Brooklyn. I gave them my signed copy of Wobblies, the graphic history. I also gave them a print out of Henry’s 25 page Mandarin (with Taiwanese characteristics, I learned) translation of IWW history and goals and one of three Wobbly pennants I brought. Calcutta was interested in the Wobbly City I brought as I discussed how David Graeber had come to our GMB meeting in 2005 when he was fired from Yale and now was a good author; we should be that for disgruntled Taiwanese workers. I will copy the newsletter and send it as an attachment to her.”

     He also brought up his desire to keep localism as their focus even as they were international. He pointed out how Jacob Zhu of China Wash was a spy for China who came to the Chrysanthemum Tea House talk he did about the IWW and grass-root unionism. He distracting Taiwan University student with his ulterior motive of promoting unification with China even while he was anti-WTO, mainly to be anti-American, not pro-worker. He-Haw looked him up on his smart phone and knew who he was referring to. He also showed He-Haw and Calcutta the list of students he’d met ten years ago in Taipei and they recognized at least one former student as still being an activist.

     In trying to start a Regional Organizing Committee for the IWW family in Taiwan, Emerson felt like a papa; he didn’t understand the kids. For example, the two native Taiwanese 22 year old members here who signed up in Melbourne, Australia didn't bring their red cards to the first two meetings they had. He fought with GHQ to get one of them delegate rigging. Finally, Calcutta received her delegate rigging from GHQ so she could pay her own dues. Then, she didn’t want the rigging! Emerson told her that they would have to give quarterly report to GHQ by the end of January 2014. 

     Jagger, a 32 year old Taiwanese man Emerson met ten years ago, hadn't signed up, yet. Emerson gave him a booklet of a Mandarin IWW translation he put together. Without Jagger signing up, and without proof Calcutta and He-Haw were in good standing, they couldn’t have a quorum for an official meeting. He gave everyone but Jagger a Referendum Ballot. No one completed Referendum ballots.

Robert Abraham, a 40 year old Canadian, hunkered into Taiwan with a wife and child for twelve years, paid initiation fees and dues (400 + 400 NT) when Emerson signed him up; he’d been a Wobbly fan for years. GHQ hadn’t mailed him applications in his rigging but Sham and/or Yarn mailed them to Calcutta. Emerson took one from her for Abraham’s application and an extra copy for himself. Abraham wants to study the ballot questions again. Emerson sent an e-mail when he got home to them and Dusty Shu in Kaohsiung with his mailing address if he wanted to vote and if they want him to mail back their ballots together, otherwise he would mail his back alone.

As far as Emerson knew, Calcutta and He-Haw hadn’t paid dues since they were signed up in Melbourne, Australia in June. He had never seen their red cards. At sub-minimum rate, they owed 50 NT a month each or 600 NT together for six months. The IWW doesn’t care if you stop paying dues and go back later, Emerson reasoned. They kept your number and continue sending you junk mail, anyway. He-Haw was working so his income was higher than Calcutta’s. They should pay something to show good faith, Emerson reasoned. Maybe they didn’t want to pay dues; this was why they didn’t bring red cards to the two meetings they had, Emerson suspected

Emerson wanted to be a catalyst and motivator for the IWW organizing in Taiwan but Calcutta and He-Haw, or someone who spoke Mandarin well, had to be the main ingredients; without their dedication they were losing a beat, Emerson feared. He thought they had to be getting two labor organizations, Cooloud and Youth Labor, to sign up and help organize the union there but they, admittedly so, didn’t know much about the IWW. Only the translation Emerson gave them had guided them. They all spoke English well. He openly suggested someone translate the Agenda into Mandarin but they didn’t take the request. Maybe Jagger, he hoped, was mature at 32 years old to take more responsibility than the twenty-two year olds. Emerson thought Michael Stern was great, well-committed and responsible, even a half hour early. Calcutta and He-Haw were fifteen minutes late and Jagger didn’t show up until an hour later, after Calcutta text-messaged him. Emerson was becoming frustrated. He stayed up late at night wondering why he was bothering with young fools like that anymore.

At the meeting He-Haw agonized over how the IWW could become relevant to workers in Taiwan. He kept talking about the Taiwanese character of conciliation with their employers and acceptance of top-down management. He was really getting on Emerson’s nerve. Emerson suggested they take Elizabeth Gurley Flynn’s tact of agitating workers who had been displaced by mismanagement. For example, workers from the Chang-Chi Foodstuff Factory Co. who made substandard food products would be on furlough and possibly lose their jobs. The IWW could suggest to them that they take over the factory after the owner files for bankruptcy, as the boss probably would. The same was true of the workers from Chuan-Shun Food Enterprise Co that were found mixing cheaper Vietnamese rice with Taiwanese rice and selling the mixture as domestic rice in August 2013 or Top Pot Bakery management that lied about not using artificial flavorings. Emerson thought that would affect workers who could lose their jobs. Those workers needed agitators and organizers and might be prone to listen to IWW ideas of self-management and organizing.

      Abraham seemed to understand what Emerson was talking about. He mentioned how Sun Yat-Sen, a socialist, perhaps an anarchist, could be a thread with which to agitate Taiwanese workers and move them from acquiescing to employers. Emerson agreed. At any rate, the IWW had to become known in Taiwan to labor groups and organizations and fellow workers. Abraham’s idea of a business card was a good idea. Emerson explained how adding articles and endorsing workers organizations to their blog, Facebook, and the main IWW website could be used to put us on the page in the Taiwan labor movement.

Emerson thought they were well on their way to having ten members needed for an R.O.C. He could almost smell it. He could count six or seven, but only two he was sure of. Who knew how many would have them verified within two weeks; he could attach the applications in e-mail back to Chicago by November.

Emerson got the e-mail from He-Haw.It was in Mandarin so he asked Phoenix to translate; as usual, she put him straight. In the e-mail Emerson got, He-Haw called Emerson an “old fart” that should stay out of Taiwan politics. “You should spend your time learning Mandarin so you can speak with us on our level instead of bothering us.” Emerson’s old Taiwanese activist friend was an fart, too, according to He-Haw. He-Haw and Calcutta had no time for and nothing to learn from either of them. The letter hit Emerson like a bomb. He scratched his head in wonder; what had he said to so inflame He-Haw? Emerson knew he was wasting time associating with them.

He contacted Robert on an Instant Messenger call to get it off his chest:

E: Hi Robert. Are you there? Let me know when you're available to IM.

R: I'm available right now (8 pm). Please don't try to contact me between 10 pm and 11:30--I'll be exercising then.

E: Hi Robert, Em here.

R: Hi Em.

E: Glad we can chat

R: How was the meeting?

E: It didn't happen

E: You mean today’s?

R: No. The Skype conference? How about the Kaohsiung meeting?

E: The meeting last weekend with Dusty Hsu was nice. He brought his girlfriend, Sooty. Today I tried to Skype him but his father answered and told me to call back later.

R: I got up today at noon to be ready to chat with you, as we are now; but we didn't, of course.

Anyway, what was discussed at the Kaohsiung meeting?

E: I discussed that I have run into a dead end with the Taipei Wobs and Lin It-Hong's youthful followers

R: Who is Lin It-Hong? I talked to one of my students about the taIWWan website, and she checked it out. I'd like to give some of the IWW cards to my co-workers in the two schools I have part-time work in, but I'm worried they'll show 'solidarity' with the bosses, and I'll get canned.

E: That's great. Dusty H. said a friend signed up for regular taIWWan updates. Lin It-Hong is an activist I met ten years ago. He is at the heart of the land rights battle in Miaoli. I'm not sure where we can find more members.

R: Do you want to do the next meeting here in Keelung?

E: Why not. I was hoping it might be at Lit It-Hong's cafe in Miaoli but it doesn't look like that will happen.

R: There's a Dante Coffee shop on Chung-Shan Road, which isn't far from the railway. I'll have to check if there's Wi-Fi; if there is, I can bring my computer,

E: We are all computer idiots. Okay so where were we. Oh yes, right now it is you, me and Dusty H. in Taiwan. Calcutta and He-Haw are assholes

M: Well, we have to deal with the language barrier, or else we won't get anyone on board. The locals will naturally want lots of Chinese spoken at the meetings.

E: I asked but she plays dumb when I ask her to do it.  I asked her or He-Haw to translate the agenda but they played dumb

R: I'm sure she can translate, but doing so is a long and laborious process. It probably wears her out.

E: okay. Did you see the e-mail He-Haw sent me? I'm never writing to him again

R: I don't mean to take sides here, but we have to deal with the fact that English isn't easy for the locals here. I read some of the correspondence, and I know there was some friction; but I thought you worked it all out.

E: He-Haw said I don't understand 'how' Taiwanese people think, and he wrote it in Mandarin. He dissed Lin-It-Hong, too even though he is Taiwanese.

I think he, Calcutta, and Jagger are in this unification mindset and don't like 'independence' thinkers

R: Do you mean that they have a 'Taiwan nationalism' mindset? I ask that because, unfortunately, there's a lot of that here, as I'm sure you know.

E: Their group Youth 95 and Cooloud support unification with China

Why else would they did Lim It-Hong?

R: Whereas we have a more internationalist way of thinking. Is Lin more pro-Taiwan independence?

E: Yes. They know him well. He was on the news again tonight.

R: For my part, I have no use for nationalism in any country, be it China, Taiwan, Canada, Germany, etc.

E: Exactly

R: Lin was on the news? What happened?

E: A professor who supports their groups protest against the Miaoli mayor's knocking down buildings there was seriously injured in a car accident yesterday and the police are refusing to release the CCTV tapes. A few months ago, his cafe's window was smashed in the middle of the night

He's been on the news a lot and Calcutta, He-Haw and especially Jagger know him.

R: And Calcutta has no sympathy for him?

E: It doesn't look like it. He-Haw called him an “old fart” like me and said he should retire, too.

R: So you mean this is a 'young vs. old' thing?

E: Maybe. The bottom line is, Calcutta and He-Haw haven't shown their red cards and refused to vote in the referendum

R: Well, whatever their attitude is, I think that--in order to get as many locals on board as possible--we'll have to cater to their need for as much Mandarin as we can give. Otherwise, they'll feel alienated.

E: I agree but they're blaming me and not helping. I want to have the meetings in Mandarin, too!

R: Yeah. Well, if Calcutta et al don't want to be involved, then I guess it's goodbye to them, and we'll have to find other locals elsewhere.

E: You were at that second meeting. They could have changed the language to Mandarin in a second and just translated for you and me. I wouldn't have minded and I told them so, bilingually.

R: It's sad to lose them, but I guess it's a case of 'c'est la vie'.

I would have been willing to let them speak in Chinese, and would have had a tough time through it. After all, it's only fair.

E: That's why I'm upset. I was hoping we'd be on the way with six or seven members in good standing towards the Taiwan ROC and instead we have three, three solid members, but only three nevertheless. I hope we can get more, though there is plenty of time until Sept.'14 when our provisional ROC expires and we have to send the funds we raise to GHQ

R: When we get some more Taiwanese members in future meetings, I think it would be a good idea to volunteer speaking in Chinese a lot, in order to show good faith to them.

E: I agree, starting with the meeting near you. At the meeting in Miaoli with Lin-It-Hong my wife, Leona, translated.

R: It will make the locals feel more at ease.

E: OK Robert, it's been grand. Stay well and keep in touch

R: Good to chat with you, too.

E: OK Fellow worker for OBU

R: Solidarity! Ta-ta! :)

Excerpt: Bread & Puppet Theater

"You dudes okay back there?"

      "Yes, we're okay, but my buddy has to take a leak."

      "We'll be making a rest stop in about fifteen minutes."

      "Great. Where are we, anyway?"

      "Maryland, near the Delaware border." Three different people were answering from the front of the bus; not the driver, Peter. He paid attention to the road religiously. Behind him in the converted school bus, with only a little of the original yellow left between the multi-color Peter Max style motif, red, blue, green; behind him were three double seats left, on each side of the aisle. Between those seats and Johnny Emerson and Tony's nook at the rear emergency door, were a dozen or so ten-foot diameter heads, caricatures of villains like Agnew, Nixon, Kissinger, and assorted fairies and well-groomed men, all paper mache, all reaching the ceiling of the bus and busting at the windows. Johnny rested his jacket on Nixon's nose; very convenient. Tony reclined between a pinwheel and a calliope.

      The Bread and Puppet Theater were news to him and Tony. If not for Walter's introduction, they would never have known about them. They were prepared to catch a Greyhound to Washington. This trip saved them money. They weren't even able to contribute to the gas pool and were never asked. They were, however, asked if they would carry some equipment and costumes out, which they gladly agreed to do.

      The Bread & Puppet Theater shared the space over the Purple Onion in the East Village. Walter worked with them before they moved to Plainfield, Vermont in June 1970. There they were the ‘theater-in-residence’ at Goddard College. Later, they would move on to Glover, Vermont, and convert an old barn there into a museum to house their puppets and homemade instruments, sculptures, and things. They even gave workshops in mime and storytelling there. 

      Now, they were headed to D.C. to give another of their

performances against American involvement in Vietnam. Their goal was to entertain while teaching about the social injustices of war, hunger and oppression. Johnny had never seen them perform. The driver, Peter Schumann, the man who formed them in West Germany in 1962, was a nice to them, offering to share food and drink and making room for them in the back of their bus. 

      Guerrilla theater they called it. Until someone informed him, he thought it was the primate they were referring to since they seemed to be monkeying around with tsetse masks and stuff. These radical activists like the San Francisco Mime Troupe that Bill Graham belonged to before he started the Fillmore rock 'n' roll shows, were very popular at demonstrations. Abbie Hoffman used guerrilla theater when he and the other Yippies took over Wall Street in August 1967. It created quite a media-frenzy and pushed the anti-war movement onto the front pages of the Daily News and Post. It certainly annoyed the business people who were ridiculed and satirized by them. 

     Guerrilla theater was going to be used by the Bread and Puppet Theater in Washington that Saturday and Sunday at the Moratorium.

The bus arrived at the Tidal Basin in Washington Friday evening, seven hours after it had left Union Square in Manhattan. Everyone was told to meet back there at 5 pm on Sunday if they wanted a ride back to New York.

     He and Tony made it to the church that had opened its doors to demonstrators. Sure, they had to sleep on the floor in the basement but it was off the street. Perhaps a hundred people took cots and stowed their things for the night. What a night. Nothing going on outside but in his mind, the sirens were blaring. A headache like he had never felt before pounded his head. He was sure that it had something to do with the church. Perhaps because he was Jewish the spirits in the church were rebelling against him. All night long he stayed up.

     "Are you okay?" she said standing over him draped by a thin blanket the staff had handed out."

     "I have a terrible headache," moaned Johnny as he glanced over to his travel partner fast asleep beside him.

     "That's easy; come across the street with me to the rectory. I believe they have some medicine." She helped him to stand up and get his bearings and left the church. As soon as he passed through the door onto the street, his headache went away. 

     "I can't believe it; my headache is gone."

     "You can't be serious."

     "Yes, it's gone. Maybe all I needed was some fresh air." They went to the rectory anyway, sat in the kitchen and had tea together, something called herbal tea." Judith was her name. The night in the church was long and their conversation lasted until dawn, a dawn they spent rolling on the grass behind the Lincoln Memorial emancipated from the burdens of sleeping in the church, despite the chilly air, wrapped together with Judith in the thin blanket until the park service officer happened upon them. They had to leave, and so they strolled back towards the church where both of them had stashed their belongings. They said goodbye. When they returned the demonstration was already starting.

     They were to meet the Bread & Puppet Theater at the base of the Washington Monument at 8 am. Somehow, it was easy to find directions; everyone sleeping in the church were heading to the Monument or the Reflecting Pool. He and Tony found Peter and the troupe by spying the large Nixon and Agnew heads being propped up. They pitched in, as they had promised, and helped get all the sets ready. There was even some talk about Johnny being a Viet Cong soldier but then they found a replacement.

The show began, if you can call it a show. He had never seen anything like it before.

      Later, Ramparts magazine detailed the performance for posterity: 

"A squad of soldiers moved through the part adjoining the U.S. Capitol. They were grubby looking troopers, clad in jungle fatigues and "boonie hats" with wide brims turned up. Jumping a low fence, they began shouting at a group of tourists. 'All right. Hold it. Hold it. Nobody move. Nobody move.' Their voices were full of tension and anger. A man broke out of the crowd and started running. Several soldiers fired at once, and the man fell, clutching his stomach. Blood could be seen on the clean sidewalk. The tourists turned away in horror. 'Get a body count,' a soldier yelled.                

"Another squad of soldiers emerged from under the Capitol steps.’All right. ID. ID,' they screeched. 'You got no ID and you Viet Cong.' They quickly grabbed a young woman and led her away, binding her wrists behind her back and prodding her with their rifles.... They grabbed [a] young man and threw him on the ground, tying his hands behind his back. Several of the soldiers kicked him, seeming to aim for his groin.

"Then someone took out a long, thick hunting knife and lifted up the man's shirt, holding the knife to his bare stomach, and pushed against it slightly. 'You VC? You VC?' The man said nothing. He was pushed to his feet and shoved down again. Then he was told to get up. This time the knife was pushed to the side of his neck, and the same question was repeated. Still no answer. The man was dragged away.... Then the soldiers left, and a smaller, less angry group of men dressed in khaki fatigues passed out leaflets to the astonished tourists.

"A US Infantry platoon just passed through here!" the pink colored piece of paper read in big bold letters. "If you had been Vietnamese... We might have burned your house. We might have shot your dog. We might have shot you... HELP US END THE WAR BEFORE THEY TURN YOUR SON INTO A BUTCHER OR A CORPSE."

       How much of Johnny's  trip was revolutionary and how much was it recreation? They were both at the same time. Getting a ride with the theater was great but they had their own ideas about what they would be doing in D.C. that weekend in November.

      “Georgetown is just across the K Street Bridge over Rock Creek Valley, left up Virginia Avenue Northwest, then right on Wisconsin Avenue Northwest ,” said the sweet young thing that happened to be seated on the grassy hill sloping down from the Washington Monument. Police had put high chain-link fencing around the rotunda at the obelisk’s base, but the lawn belonged to the people, most of them, like him, close to the age one had to register for the draft lottery. Julia didn’t have to worry about being drafted females weren’t targeted then. Julia, being all but fifteen, had only flower power in her bright blue eyes, no shades of politics or war. She chanced to live in a suburb of Washington D.C. which was neither a residence to poor underclass of African- Americans nor the home to denizen scions of diplomats. Her father, from a working class family, was a mechanic at Temple Motors in nearby Alexandria, Virginia. She was visiting the apartment her older brother shared with his classmate who was an undergraduate at Georgetown University. It was a beautiful Saturday, November 15, 1969.

      “Clear the area now or you will be in violation of Chapter 1, Section 7.96 ‘Parks Service Regulations – National Capitol Region.”

      “What did he say?”

      “He said the Parks Department wants us out of here.”

      “Why? We’re not doing anything bad.”

      “They’re flying kites?”

      “What did you say?”

      “They’re saying we can’t fly kites here.”

      “That’s ridiculous. Who said so?” A young bearded man in an Indian peasant shirt and beads handed Johnny Emerson an official flyer with the Parks Department logo on top.

     “It is covered in Section 1.5, ‘Closures and public use limits’,” said the young man sitting near them. “Look at Item #13. Under the title ‘National Mall Superintendent’s Compendium’ addendum to 36 CRF with an additional set of discretionary restrictions specific to the National Malls under Section 1.5 Subsection (c), it says, ‘Public Use Limits’ and the all important Item #13 which, indeed, prohibited flying kites [using glass-coated or other abrasive non- biodegradable kite string…”

      “Enough already!”

      “But it’s so nice here. Why would they want us to leave?” Julia got up from her spot on the grass and scanned the scene, her hand over her eyes for shade. She saw thousands of young people like herself down the slope and surrounding the Reflecting Pool leading up to the Capitol Building. The disturbing sound of helicopters droned overhead. An occasional caravan of police vehicles, sirens screaming, red lights flashing, sped down Madison and Jefferson Drive. A troupe of D.C. police waited down the side of the Monument, helmets on, visors down, batons in hand. The warning came again out of the mouth of a bullhorn from among their ranks.

      I don’t want to leave,” Julia protested. “It’s so nice here.” She passed half of a tangerine someone had given her. To her, it was a picnic for thousands who didn’t mind getting grass stains on their jeans. Julia preferred to sit on one of the large Moratorium broadsides someone had handed out. It was larger than the Revolutionary Worker newspaper which is the only reason why she kept one instead of the other.

      “You have fifteen minutes to clear the area or you will be arrested.”

      “You said Georgetown wasn’t far, didn’t you?” he queried. “Could we walk there from here?”

      “Or take a train or bus.”

      “I don’t think any Metro trains or buses are running near here now.”

      “No, I guess not. Yeah, we could walk there. Why?”

      “How long?”

      “I don’t know about an hour, half hour…I never tried walking,” said Julia squinting her eyes in the sun.

      “You look so adorable when you do that.”

      “What. What was I doing?” said Julia as she squatted back down to see him face to face.

      “Oh, nothing. You were squinting your eyes in the sun and your nose looked so cute all scrunched up.” Julia put her hand in front of her mouth, chuckled, and smiled into Emerson’s eyes.

      “You’re a nice person, Johnny Emerson. Would you like to meet my brother? He knows more about what’s going on. The two of you could be good.”

      “Where is he?”

      “Oh, he’s down there near that red banner.” Julia pointed to the left side of the lawn where a group of students from a Georgetown University organization for peace had set itself up.

      “Come on. Let’s go down and get a drink. They have some cold lemonade there,” said Julia as she jumped up from her squat and put two hands out for Emerson to be pulled up by. They laughed as he took hold of them and both nearly tumbled back to the ground by his weight.

      Her brother was packing something when she startled him with a hello.

      “Julia, you’d better leave now. It looks like it is going to get ugly around here,” said Matthew, her be speckled brother, his long blond hair tied at his shoulders.

      “Go back to my place and wait for us there. Sunny?” he called out and gestured to a cooler near his classmate, a young woman with a sunflower painted onto her cheek. “Could you go with Julia back to the apartment and bring this with you?”

      “Here, let me take that,” said Johnny  reaching down for a handle on the heavy cooler.

      “Matthew, this is Johnny Emerson. He’s from Lawrence, Massachusetts.”

      “Lawrence, eh. Site of the Strike for Three Loaves. Right?”

      “That’s right. For thirty-two cents that the bosses cut from their salary.”

      “It’s nice to meet you. What group are you with?”

      “I came down here in a bus with the Bread & Puppet Theater but we got separated. I also lost my classmate, Tony. I hope to meet up with him and them at the spot they said they’d be leaving from late Sunday afternoon.”

      “If we stay here we’ll get arrested, you know,” said Matthew as he scurried to collect some brochures and pins the group had placed on a bridge table. They were packing up and getting ready for the siege.

      “I’ll come back and meet you, if you don’t mind, after we drop off Julia and the cooler,” he said as he and Sunny lifted the cooler.”

      “If we’re not here when you get back, we may be in RFK Stadium. That’s where the pigs are putting demonstrators, I heard,” said Matthew.

      With that, he and Sunny headed west off the Monument lawn with Julia holding a bag and a backpack. They headed toward Georgetown. They had just gotten down to K Street when they heard a roar from up the Washington Monument hill. The police were slowly walking in line up the hill and surrounding the demonstrators, Matthew among them.

      “They’re taking Matthew,” yelled Julia and turned to go back.

      “There’s nothing we can do,” he said putting the cooler down with Sunny and turning to see the police line moving up the hill, faster now, the people inside scampering and defending themselves.”

      “Your brother will be okay. He’ll know what to do. Let’s go before we get trapped, too.”

      The three of them followed with the crowd heading away from the ruckus. Still others circled around to join the main demonstration near the Reflecting Pool. Johnny, Julia, and Sunny headed past the Watergate Complex and across the bridge to Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. 

Excerpt: Reinventing the Wobbly Wheel

      “I want to make a deal with you.”

      “He wants to make a deal with us.”

      “Bring our union up to date.” Eupheus Crutch had requested at the previous monthly meeting, and over the internet, that members rendezvous with him at Ft. Green Park, it was decided as most of the members lived in Brooklyn, on a Saturday next, one o’clock, to hear a very important proposal he had been working on for months, had even sent in to general headquarters for their approval, to no avail. He felt that the weight of a New York City General Membership endorsement would open up some eyes when it was published in the G.O.B., the General Office Bulletin for the Industrial Workers of the World.

      “I’ve been thinking, and sure working hard. Tell me how y’all feel. I’m glad y’all come here today. If Eugene comes it’s five, and we’ll have a quorum; we can vote on it and make branch policy. Thank you for listening. Cigarette Emerson? Oh yes, that’s right. You’ve quit. How’s that going, by the way? Uh-huh; didn’t mean to tempt you. What’s that; sure Fellow Worker Fergie. You are more than welcome to one. Well, well well. Lookie who’s comin up yonder hill, and only an hour late. I’m sure he has a good reason; he always does. Why Fellow Worker Portobello, you do us honor with your presence. Why sure we’ll be finished soon; I wouldn’t want to keep you from your Dante Workers meeting. I, too, have an important meeting in the City at five o’clock. I’m so glad you could attend. And, congratulations; you are the fifth member here in good standing. You are in good standing, aren’t you? Well that’s just fine and dandy.

      Without further ado, I have here in my satchel all the documentation y’all will need to make a proper informed decision. We have a chance to make history here, fellow workers, and sister worker Sadie. Fergie, Emerson, Pete. What you now have in your hands is the re-worked Wheel of Industrial Organization.  

      Compare it, if you would all be so kind, to Figure ‘B,’ Father Haggerty’s wheel. The good father, bless his Wobbly soul, besides leaving the pulpit for some more worthwhile and constructive vocation, for the welfare of all working folk, designed this well nigh about a century ago at a time when certain industries were still immature or hadn’t even been born yet. For example, there were no franchise restaurants with prepared foods back then so he classified retail workers in the food industry instead of assigning them an industrial union number of their own; he put them with butchers and greengrocers instead of listing them as sales clerks. What’s that Pete? Yes, I know y’all make cappuccino and latte, but, bear with me a moment, I shall answer all your questions in due course. That is why I.U. 640 is no longer reasonable and another number should be assigned service workers. Now look, if you will, at the new wheel I invented; a separate I.U. 660 has been created to identify all workers in the fast food industry. What’s that, Emerson? Why of course. I’ll just run my mouth a little while you find yourself a place to relieve yourself. I shall go no further until you return. Why yes, sister worker Sarah; I would love a candy.”

       Eupheus Crutch went on for another hour using all the time allotted to him. His fellow workers were tired and wanted to go.

      “I know it’s late but I call for a vote on endorsing the new wheel of Industrial Organization I put together. Now who seconds the motion?” No one raised their hand. “Now come on y’all. How about you Emerson; second the motion, won’t you?”

      “I don’t think we should be wasting our time reinventing the wheel when there are more important things to do.”

      “But I have explained the necessity there is for new industry…”

      “I have to go Crutch; another time,” said Pete as he stood up from the lawn to leave.”

      “Fellow workers: let us strike while the iron’s hot; now sit down for a moment won’t you fellow worker?”

      “Okay, I second the motion, and vote ‘no’ for changing the wheel.”

      “But we’re not voting on changing the wheel; we’re only voting for an endorsement from our branch for the acceptance by the general committee to bring it up for a union-wide vote.

      The other three Wobblies all raised their hands to vote ‘no.’

      “The vote is four to one, fellow worker Eupheus. That’s that.”

      “Well if y’all are going to vote not to endorse the proposal then I retract the proposal.”

      “You can’t do that; it’s underhanded,” said sister worker Sadie.

      “Call it what you will sister worker; I retract my proposal.”

      “Too late,” Pete said as he stood and walled a few steps down the grassy knoll. “The vote’s been taken. We do not endorse your stupid wheel. Bye?”

      “Well, I never!”

      The result of the vote for the NYC GMB rejection of Colonial Crutch’s wheel was printed in the monthly Wobbly City newsletter.

      Ah yes; The Wobbly City; Emerson had taken on the responsibility for organizing a monthly newsletter for the branch. No one requested that he do it, and no one offered to help; he just thought it was the right thing to do and he felt like volunteering to do it. He promised the general membership branch that he would send each member attending the monthly meeting a first draft of the newsletter for their approval before he printed it up and would spend no branch funds. It was an offer no one could refuse, so they voted to make Emerson the editor of the Wobbly City, a name he himself had come up with. For three years, every month, Emerson culled news stories from the branch members, sometimes tweaking minutes from meeting or pulling arms to get some copy. Usually he had to write copy himself, under three different pseudonyms.

      Sometimes it got a little dicey about what he could print. Eupheus Crutch claimed all names should be anonymous so the authorities couldn’t pin anything on anyone and cautioned Emerson to remember that sabotage was disavowed by the union so don’t print anything about it. Ry Grossinger took exception to a truthful article about his nascent Dante Barista Union because it didn’t reflect the image he wanted to have presented to the public. They almost came to blows over propaganda versus truth. Ry would write the articles about him by himself. Emerson had to edit the newsletter to let him do so, and he had the votes of the general membership, padded that week with baristas to make sure his veto held up.

      When one fellow worker threw his hat into the ring to be editor, every barista there, and the few members who weren’t baristas, agreed to let the new guy have a chance since Emerson had been doing it for three years. Tom Hood became the new editor saying he would work with Emerson on the transition. He decided it was better to use the internet technology to put the Wobbly City on-line and save paper. One issue on the internet came out. After that, Tom Hood was too busy with other more important projects to continue; and he didn’t realize how much work he would have to put into it. The newsletter languished not to see the light of day again for years.

      By the time Ry Grossinger had taken over the branch behind the curtain and nominated Emerson back as the editor of the Wobbly City, Emerson had already quit the branch.

Excerpt: The Hole in the Wall

It was Hole in the Wall where Emerson got his first job in San Francisco; a low-pressure position behind a counter selling hot dogs and ice cream cones. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so busy that he couldn’t study a little Chinese along the way.

An endless stream of tourists waited in a queue, shuffling slowly passed the hot dog stand, inching closer to the turntable near Market Street, to catch the famous cable car as it was turned on Powell Street back up and over the hill to Fisherman’s Wharf.

The Hole in the Wall was frequented mostly by white tourist families , but occasionally a Chinese man would go in, not for ice cream, but to ask Emerson strange questions like “How is business?” or “What day is today?”. They wanted him to tell Bruce Gao that they were there. Emerson called Mama Gao who was across the street somewhere in an office in the Woolworth Building. Emerson started wondering exactly what his store was a hole in the wall for. He soon found out.

Bruce Gao was a Chinese-American who hired Emerson. The short, thin, mustached entrepreneur in dark sunglasses would stop into the store every morning all summer and then rush out to the street to the cable car turntable a few yards down near the Market Street terminus where willing volunteers helped push the antique cars around; an endearing photo opportunity for visitors. Bruce was there with a Polaroid camera to snap them up for five dollars a shot. His Caucasian wife stood nearby wearing an advertising sandwich around her shoulders. She collected the fees Bruce handed her.

Fingers plucked a pre-tuned guitar, holding the pick with the only two fingers he had, playing Musslewhite slide-guitar with the aluminum top of a mixed-drink shaker wedged over the stump where his left hand had been. He played it so well. Slide guitar was as natural to him as a split fingered- slider was to Mordecai Peter Centennial "Three Finger" Brown, the famous handicapped pitcher. Like Fingers, he didn’t know how he played so well because he had never played any other way. Fingers played the Delta blues, with the red-felt lined guitar case in front of him, on the street. The endless line of summer tourists waited behind the ropes slung along the cable car line on Powell Street down to the BART Station promenade on Market Street.

“Look at that,” Fingers said to Emerson standing at the popcorn machine on the sidewalk, “That cheapskate just threw in a friggin’ dime.”

“Are you with the cable car company?” Emerson asked naively.

“Am I with what? Say what?” Fingers grimaced. “You’re surely joking, right?”

“No, I’m serious; they should pay you for entertaining the crowd,” Emerson replied enthusiastically.

“Yeah right; I scare the hell out of those buggers.” He gestured to the stumps at the end of his arms. “That’s what you get for being stoned drunk and falling asleep across a railroad track.”

Fingers had a captive audience for “Born under a Bad Sign,” which he most certainly was, and “Sittin’ on Top of the World,” which he most certainly wasn’t. Occasionally, some kid’s father would acknowledge Fingers by sending a daughter with a quarter to put in Finger’s guitar case; you could see him point her towards Finger’s cash case saying, “Go on; don’t be afraid.” But the child’s fear of approaching a fat, hand-less, Samoan with a guitar on the street was enough to make him think twice. Fingers had such a sweet smile though. But most tourists tried their best not to look at or hear Fingers, at all.

The line got shorter each cute cable car filled after being pushed around the turntable by the happy call for “volunteers” by the brakemen, to return up Powell Street to Fisherman’s Wharf. To be stuck in front of Fingers, listening to another rendition of “Summertime,” in the heat of a San Francisco summer, was more painful to some shy tourists than being stuck upside-down on an amusement park ride.

Occasionally, when things got slow, Fingers berated the crowd for being cheapskates. Minutes passed between songs without donations. He’d go into another rendition of “I’d Rather Go Blind than to See You with Another Man.” Parents cringed as their kiddies tugged at their pants and asked why the fat in singer in the Tom Sawyer could play the guitar but had no hands. “Could he really go blind that way? Did he see her touch another man?”

Bruce Gao’s mother showed up at The Hole in the Wall regularly; she was all business. Even shorter than her five-foot tall son. When she came, Emerson had to pretend he didn’t know Fingers. Unlike her son, she’d breeze passed Emerson at the popcorn machine without a “hello,” scurry down the narrow space in front of the counter, and expect him to follow behind. There, she rang up the cash register, opened the till, and counted the money witnessed. The income had to match the number of hot dogs and spiced sausages floating in the aluminum tub of hot oil-dotted water.

“How many hot dog you sell?” just to test him; she knew how many there should be justified.

“Fourteen.”

“Then why fifteen missing?”

“I had one for a snack.”

“It not lunch time yet.”

“I was hungry.”

“No eat behind counter; okay? Not professional,” she strongly said, took the extra cash, added five more dogs from the refrigerator, and left the store with Emerson almost at attention.

Emerson learned she had an office in the Woolworth building across the street. She processed photographs there, he later learned, for fake passports and visas. How did he learn?

Emerson went home on the Market Street streetcar. When it made the turn onto Church Street, he was just a few blocks away from home. Bob was there to greet him. Bob was the man who lived downstairs in the small Victorian house. He seemed nice enough, introducing his wife, Cathy and his two little daughters; a lovely woman and two lovely little girls.

The chaos started a few nights later at nine o’clock. The cool evening air was unstable. One blanket cloud, in high wind, marched east in the sky from off the Pacific Ocean to engulf San Francisco. The streets became urgent, sounds muffled.

      First Emerson could hear angry voices through the air duct in the wall behind the refrigerator; high-pitched tortured squeals dying with deep articulations like growls. Through the window now he heard them, boomeranging of the shocking pink plastic siding off the house across the alley.

      How do you get false papers to be smuggled to America? Every day that the sun shined during the summer, Bruce Gao was out by the cable car roundhouse taking Polaroid photos of kids with their parents. It was a front. The real business took place upstairs in the Woolworth building where Bruce’s mother was getting phone calls and making arrangements with snakeheads in Canton. The stolen passports were the job of Bruce Gao’s wife. While Bruce was taking photos of dads with their kids, his Caucasian wife was charmingly sneaking up behind them and lifting the passport from pop’s pocket. The handoff was made and brought to Mama Gao in the print shop where all the mechanisms were available for changing photos and names on passports using the original sensitive paper, changing the code, and sending it on its way to the recipient across the Pacific in China. Emerson knew something was going on when single middle-aged Chinese men entered the Hole in The Wall looking for Bruce or Mama Gao. They had no interest in a bag of popcorn or having their souvenir photo taken. Theirs were bigger fish to fry. 

      Emerson didn’t find out how it was done until years later when he was teaching at Norman Thomas High School. That’s when he met Ting Wang, a thirteen year old when his parents paid smugglers $25,000 to take him from his village in China to the United States. He had enrolled himself there, thanks to his immigration attorney who had searched for a legal solution and had gotten him a visa meant for victims of human trafficking – usually meant for people who were brought to America against their will, like women forced to work as prostitutes.

      It starts when the parents of a Chinese youth contracts a “snakehead,” a local mafia loan shark who promises to take the youth where he can have a better life and earn $1000 a month instead of $100 working at a restaurant in San Francisco. When he arrived, in a phone conversation with his mom, he learned that he had to send money home or their lives would be in danger. When the debt is paid off, the family is free. Immigration authorities detain thousands of unaccompanied youth trying to enter the U.S. Ting Wang was one that made it through.

      One snakehead’s connection was Bruce Gao and family. Mama Gao knew people from the youth’s village and did them a service. The doctored passports and visas were contracted for and picked up by an agent, a U.S. citizen who brought it to back to China and accompanied the youth on the return, pretending to be a relative. The whole transaction was done in cash. The agent was then supposed to set up employment for the youth and guide him on his way, but it often didn’t happen like that.

Once Ting Wang was brought to America, he was on his own. His mother told him to look around for employment agencies in Chinatown and he did, but he was told he was too young and turned away again and again spending the first five nights sleeping on a bench in the Embarcadero, until by chance he met a man from his village who offered him a job in his garment factory.

Emerson didn’t know about any of that when he hawked hot dogs at the Hole in the Wall; only that there was some funny business going on. To the Gao family, Emerson was a Trojan Horse. In an attempt to get them to lay him off so he could collect unemployment insurance, he threatened them not realizing how close he got to getting himself killed.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said

“What? What am I up to?” Bruce questioned cautiously when he stopped by to see what mess Emerson had caused; Emerson took to tossing a hot dog through the fan they had placed at the end of the counter and watching as it splattered all over the tiny store. Then, he would slowly clean it up, until Bruce got the picture, but Mama Gao wouldn’t suffer the contribution she would have to make to let him go, so she kept him on. However, they couldn’t jeopardize their smuggling racket and finally relented, but not before sending Emerson a warning.

It happened one day that a check his aunt had sent from New York had gotten lost in the mail. Emerson knew it was a month late because his aunt kept checking on it for him. Then, one day, Bruce Gao handed Emerson the envelope that contained the check at work and said that he had found it on the street near his home; what a coincidence. It was a warning. Emerson got laid off but knew he had better not look back once he was gone.

      “I lost my job today,” said Emerson when he saw Bob in his usual five o’clock spot; on the steps outside the house, beer can in hand.

      “Oh, so sorry. That’s tough.”

      “No, it’s okay; I wanted to get laid off. Now I can collect unemployment insurance and get food stamps,” explained Emerson.