To Will: Class and anti-racism

Inspired by this post.

I haven’t gotten involved in the “anti-racism” discussion, and, really, I’m still not.  I am replying to my good friend Will Shetterly’s comments on it, because I am a Red, and we Reds have a tradition of  saving our vitriol for those who come closest to agreeing with us.  I am doing so publicly, on my blog, because a) I don’t want to pull his discussion off track, 2) I still haven’t figured out exactly which of his blogs and feeds to reply to, iii) I want to open this up to any Smart People hanging around here, and D) I’m just that sort of asshole.

What I hear from you is a constant exchange that, it seems to me, goes like this: They argue that racism is a real problem, and you say that you have never denied this.  You say that it isn’t just those of color who are oppressed, but also the poor.  They have never denied this.  They say that by bringing up the poor, you are distracting the discussion from racism.  You say that it is impossible to discuss racism without bringing in class issues.  And so around and around.  What are we missing here?

It seems to me, Will, that you are basing your position on an abstraction that is, fundamentally, true: in terms of both the causes and the cures of social ills, class is a  fundamental distinction, race is secondary.  Okay, we both agree on that.  Now what?  If we want to understand the causes and cures, and if we begin with the idea that the class struggle is the essential motivating force in society, then it follows that ideas have class distinctions at their base.  Racism is an idea–an idea that expresses itself in poverty, in brutality, in misery, in oppression.  What is the class basis of this idea?  As you have said, it is an idea that serves the interests of the ruling class, of the propertied, of capital, of the elite.

“Anti-racism,” like racism itself, is an idea.  What is the class basis of this idea?  It is a theory of the middle-class, of those who deny that the class struggle is fundamental,  of those who exist between the two camps who have actual power.  What are the hallmarks of a middle-class idea?  First, the attempt to understand social issues without regard to class–the reduction of things to “just people.”  Second, reflecting the lack of real, material power, everything is reduced to an idea.  The problem is not children dying because the heat was cut off because there was no money because the factory closed and a black man in a poor area has a nearly impossible task in finding work; the problem is: people have racist thoughts.  The problem isn’t that the environment is being sacrificed in a reckless drive for profit, the problem is: people aren’t environmentally aware.  The solution, to them, isn’t the destruction of social classes forever, thus removing the material basis for racism and the destruction of the environment, it is to explore your own mind, and to learn how to speak without hurting people’s feelings and to learn the importance of recycling.

Environmental issues cannot be solved, or even seriously addressed, until the profit motive has been removed, and the full creative potential of humanity has been turned to the problem; but there are those who talk about how we should “reduce our carbon footprint,” removing the class issue from it, so it becomes not a problem of humanity organizing and consciously determining use of resources, but rather “just people.”  The women’s movement (as, in fact, the struggle against racism) has moved from being part of a proletarian movement, to being middle class; now it isn’t a question of wages, of medical care, of the right to a decent life, but instead a series of abstractions designed to appeal to those with a certain level of privilege, of comfort, and to hell with the rest of them.  (In fact, the women’s movement is probably the worst; where at one time it revolved around the fight for union representation, for equal wages, abortion rights, and for the right to vote, now they furiously argue with each other about how many women should be in the Senate and whether there should be laws banning pornography.  Ye gods.)

So here’s my problem with your approach: Merely by saying the working class is oppressed, without also seeing the power the working class has to remake society; by putting it in terms of income rather than in terms of relation to production (which is what gives the working class it’s power); by putting it on the level that one idea, “classism” is more significant than another idea, “racism;” you are, yourself, taking the same sort of middle-class stand that is at the root of what you are arguing against.  If your middle-class position is marginally less wrong than someone else’s middle-class position, that doesn’t carry the struggle forward one iota.

Why are you engaging with them?  Is it subjective frustration that “someone is wrong on the internet?”  Do you believe that you can change the world “one mind at a time?”  Can you name an individual whose life is better because of this dispute?  It may be that you’re arguing for the same reason I argue (and am doing so now): it helps me clarify my own ideas.  But if that’s the reason, be aware of it, and keep in mind that ideas by themselves aren’t going to change anything; and accepting the most fundamental error of your opponent is not the best way to avoid his mistakes.

By request, the song mentioned in the previous post

Not terribly proud of this one, but here it is.  I think the formatting is a bit screwy, so the changes don’t actually go where they appear to.

Never Trust A Bureaucrat

E                A
Negotiations broke down over benefits and pay.
B7                 E
We put it to a vote and went out the sixth of May.
F#
On the ninth our union president presented his advice:
B7                      E
He stood before the local, said, “Why can’t you guys be nice?
C#m                G#m
I understand your grevances, I sympathize and all,
A                     B7
But keep your tempers down and we’ll negotiate next fall.”
E              F#
I turned to my buddy, and said, “I smell a rat,”
B7                 E
He said, “It’s the same old story: Never trust a bureaucrat.”

All through the long hot summer we walked the picket line
The company got injunctions, they threatened us with fines.
They brought in scabs and thugs, called in the guard and then,
Our president said, “Have no fear I’ll write my congressman.”
We said we’d fight it out right here until we took the prize,
That’s when we got the news that said, “Your strike’s not authorized.”
The minute we began to fight, that’s when they dumped us flat.
We learned our lesson well: never trust a bureaucrat.

They sell out the boys at Boise, just like they did P9.
They call us wildcatters and kiss management’s behind
In Northern Minnesota, at Greyhound or the mines,
You know we’ve been through all of this a hundred thousand times,
The rank and file want to fight, the leadership says nix,
Kind of makes you think that they’re a bunch of lousy people.
Every chance they get they’re going to stab you in the back,
Well, the lesson’s pretty simple: never trust a bureaucrat.

They got me so confused I don’t know who to hate
The boss wants war in the Middle-East, the bureaucrats say Great.
When it seems like our lives are on a slow boat to Hell,
All they try to tell us is, “Please vote DFL.”
But an injury to one is still an injury to all,
The trumpet is still sounding, and we still hear the call.
They’re wretched, sneaking little mice, and we are all the cats;
The power’s in our hands, we don’t need the bureaucrats.

18-Nov-90

One of the high points of my life

I don’t know why I feel like telling this story now, but I do; it’s the story of a moment–an instant–in my life that I look back on with intense pleasure.

It was the winter of 1990, and I had left the Party some years before, but still considered myself a sympathizer.  In International Falls, there was a wildcat strike against Boise-Cascade, which had brought in non-union workers to build a new paper mill.  For those who don’t know, a wildcat strike is one where the officials of the union say no to the strike, and the workers tell the officials to bugger off.

One of the leaders of the strike was a guy named Dan; a big guy, with a good voice and clear eyes and an easy smile.  Though no longer involved with the movement, I of course saw my parents a great deal, and they were working closely with Dan, so I got to know him.  The greatest bitterness was directed against the leadership of the union, which was leaving them on their own, and in fact actively working against them.  For whatever reason, I got inspired to write a song, and I did.  It was called, “Never Trust a Bureaucrat,” and, really, from a songwriting standpoint, it isn’t one of my best efforts, but it made it’s point.  I played it for Dan, and he loved it.

There was a rally to be held in support of the strike.  The UAW workers at the Ford Plant in St. Paul donated the space for the meeting, and ran the concessions (beer and potato chips, as I recall).  Dan told me to show up, and to bring my guitar.

The speakers were pretty awful.  One was a leader (read: bureaucrat) of the pilot’s union, then striking against Eastern Airlines, and he bragged (bragged!) that they had pioneered the policy of givebacks–that is, offering to the company to reduce wages and benefits.  The other speakers weren’t much better.

Finally, Dan had had enough.  As some other bureaucrat was about to speak, he stood up, walked up to the mic like an army, and started talking.  There was more passion than science in his speech, but there was a lot of passion.  He was mad, fed up, disgusted.  He spoke of the need for a labor party, and he spoke of the need for revolutionary leadership in the unions.  He mentioned my parents by name, and then mentioned me–asking me to come up and sing my song.

I made a decent job of it; there was a line of bureaucrats–the speakers–against one wall, but I focused on the rows of construction workers from International Falls in front of me, and the Ford workers in back of them.  I have no memory of how much or how little applause I got, but as I went to put my guitar away, Dan gave me a nod, and that meant a great deal.

All I was sure of, as I packed up the guitar, was that I really, really wanted a beer.

I walked back to the concession stand.  The guy behind the counter, a Ford worker, gave me a nod and a beer.  I put a dollar on the counter, but he pushed it back at me.  “Your money’s no good here,” he said.

I walked out of the place feeling ten feet tall.