National Poetry Month is gone for this first year of pandemic, but
it’s Friday, and May Day, when we turn to thoughts of the working class and
revolution. This—despite all efforts of Cadet Bonespurs and his kleptocratic
administration—is the United States of America, so there is no military
hardware parade.
I’m feeling kind of Woodie Guthrie, and specifically his anthem
for the migrants of the 1930s, who tried to find a better life outside the Dust
bowl. This influx to California and the rough welcome they were given was
documented in John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, but no one reads
that any more. However, in my childhood and youth, you could still hear that
flat midwestern accent around Bakersfield and Fresno. And I recall sharply my
mother dismissing those migrants as “Okies”.
Sadly, Guthrie’s point is still valid—if you don’t have the dough-re-mi,
just keep on movin’, son.
This version is by John Mellencamp.
For the love of God, people—get out to the polls and vote in
November.
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