Category Archives: News

Bloodpot and Melting Pot: Woody Guthrie and “Old Man Trump”

atrumpfred
In 1950, Woody Guthrie leased an apartment from Donald Trump’s father, Fred, in the Beach Haven complex, near Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. As Woody’s biographer Will Kaufman writes in an article published today on The Conversation, it didn’t take too long before Woody “was already lamenting the bigotry that pervaded his new, lily-white neighborhood, which he’d taken to calling ‘Bitch Havens.'”

Fred Trump — Woody called him “Old Man Trump” — “came to personify all the viciousness of the racist codes that continued to put decent housing – both public and private – out of reach for so many of his fellow citizens,” Kaufman writes. As Woody put it, Trump had drawn a “color line” and “stirred up” hate “in the bloodpot of human hearts”:

In his notebooks, [Woody] conjured up a scenario of smashing the color line to transform the Trump complex into a diverse cornucopia, with “a face of every bright color laffing and joshing in these old darkly weeperish empty shadowed windows.” He imagined himself calling out in Whitman-esque free verse to the “negro girl yonder that walks along against this headwind / holding onto her purse and her fur coat”:

I welcome you here to live. I welcome
you and your man both here to Beach Haven to love in any
ways you please and to have some kind of a decent place to
get pregnant in and to have your kids raised up in. I’m
yelling out my own welcome to you

Woody’s “welcome” is echoed by what Arlo has to say about his father at one point in 1913 Massacre. Near the end of our first interview, I asked Arlo what he thought his father found out about being “American” in the course of his travels. The film doesn’t include Arlo’s full answer — how could it! — so here’s that moment from our interview transcripts.

Well, he found out that he was a human being. That he had shared feelings about the values of this country. He loved the idea that there would be a place in the world where people could come, people could be born, and it didn’t matter what color they were, what circumstances they were from, what religion they had, what traditions, who their parents were, who their girlfriends, boyfriends were — he loved the idea that people would rise above all these little petty things. That somewhere in the world there was a whole country of people who valued these ideas. Didn’t mean that not everybody in the government did by the way. It just meant that by in large most people understood, most ordinary people understood, that this was so. And not only that, he believed that if everybody spoke their own mind, and we actually had the tolerance to listen to everybody else speaking their mind, that the overall mind would lead us in the right direction. In other words he had faith in that if everybody could have their say, the country would be all right, and that we would go in the right direction, generation after generation.

Not everybody believes that, even today. There are people who want to cut short other people’s speech. There are people who are afraid that if they say the wrong thing they’d be foolish so they don’t say anything. There are people who believe all kinds of crazy things. But he was convinced that if you let everybody speak—often—and teach them that speaking is—by speaking I don’t mean just talking. I mean speak by what they do, by where they shop, by what they wear, by who they are, by their friends, by all of these things that define us. If we are free to be ourselves a little more in a country where people are not only encouraged to be themselves but love the idea of being in a place where everybody is being themselves. He loved that. That’s why he loved Coney Island. That’s why he loved being there in the midst of all these millions of people running around, everybody different, everybody — you couldn’t even understand half of them, it didn’t even matter. You could still buy something from them, you could still hang out with them, you could still goof off with them, you could still make music with them.

It wouldn’t be until the 1970s that the Civil Rights Division of the U.S. Justice Department would bring two cases charging that “racially discriminatory conduct by Trump agents” had “created a substantial impediment to the full enjoyment of equal opportunity.” Twenty years previous, Woody issued a simpler indictment:

God dont
know much
about any color lines.

Joe Hill’s music in Chicago this week

If you’re in Chicago, don’t miss Bucky Halker at the Filament Theatre this Wednesday, November 18th at 7:30PM, performing songs from his new CD Anywhere But Utah: Songs of Joe Hill.  Bucky will share the stage with special guests the BS Brass Band and John Abbey.

More information here, at Bucky’s site and here, at the Filament Theatre site.

A Stark Reminder of Mining’s Toxic Legacy

In this Denver Post photograph, Kalyn Green, resident of Durango, stands on the edge of the Animas River

In this August 6th Denver Post photograph, Kalyn Green of Durango stands on the bank of the Animas River.

Ken and I sometimes present 1913 Massacre as a film about “mining’s toxic legacy.” Over the past week or so, that phrase has started to take on new meaning.

On Wednesday, August 4th, an EPA crew working with heavy digging machinery to install a drain in the abandoned and flooded Gold King Mine breached a debris dam and triggered the release of over three million gallons of toxic orange sulfide mining sludge into Cement Creek, which joins the Animas River at Silverton, Colorado. The Animas flows for about a hundred miles, through the San Juan National Forest and the town of Durango, to meet the San Juan River, a tributary of the Colorado River, in Farmington, New Mexico. Before the weekend, Farmington’s waters had turned orange. At the start of this week, the toxic plume of arsenic, lead, copper, cadmium and aluminum had reached Utah.

The Gold King is still draining, at an alarming rate of well over 500 gallons per minute. EPA crews have been working to construct settling ponds where the mine wastewater can be treated before it flows into Cement Creek; but the agency has otherwise stumbled in its efforts to handle the crisis and keep the public fully informed. EPA Region 8 officials were slow to acknowledge the magnitude of the Animas River disaster and they’ve appeared reluctant to share water quality data and issue appropriate advisories. That has invited some well-deserved criticism as well as some political grandstanding, with politicians from Colorado to New Mexico and Arizona lambasting the agency, urging that EPA hold itself to the same level of accountability as it would hold any private entity responsible for such a spill, and demanding compensation for damages. Colorado State Senator Ellen Roberts dubbed the Animas “the EPA Love Canal.”

Of course, there is much more to the story. The abandoned mines around Silverton — the Gold King, the Red and Bonita, and the American Tunnel — have been releasing hundreds of gallons of toxic wastewater every minute, every day, for nearly a decade. The Sunnyside Gold Corporation stopped treating the water in Cement Creek in 2003. The EPA was trying to remedy the problem; but the EPA and legal provisions in the Clean Water Act also stymied earlier efforts of good samaritan groups like the Animas River Stakeholders Group.

In truth, the Gold King catastrophe looks less like the result of a sudden breach and more like a slow-motion disaster that has been unfolding for decades, in Silverton and throughout the American West. Towns that historically depended on mining for their livelihood, or still hope for mining’s return, as Silverton did as late as 2013, tend to forgive, or turn a blind eye, to what one 2013 Durango Herald article calls “gross environmental malfeasance.” The problem is much more widespread than most people could ever have imagined: according to the federal government, “40 percent of the headwaters of Western waterways have been contaminated from mine runoff.”

Like it or not, this is our industrial heritage. We have a responsibility to deal with the toxic legacy of mining’s past. At the same time we ought to remember that mining, and especially non-ferrous or sulfide mining, still poses a serious threat to American waters. Sure, mining and water treatment technologies have improved. But “treating water,” as the EPA’s Steve Way put it in 2014, “is a forever decision”; and neither industry nor government demonstrate unwavering commitment to that decision. So we have yet to clean up the mess left by mining companies that operated in the last century; and we continue to permit risky mining operations that will contaminate groundwaters and are likely to kill rivers, decimate wetlands, and pollute our waters.

As people in the Lake Superior region — where our film is set, and which in recent years has witnessed a new run of exploration, leasing and mining activity — watched the Animas disaster unfold, many expressed the same thought: “imagine this coming down the St. Louis River.” “We can’t let this happen to the Boundary Waters.” In the Upper Peninsula, where Lundin Mining is now making a bid to expand sulfide mining operations to the headwaters of the Yellow Dog River, people are worried that today’s mining will irreparably damage waterways that managed to escape, or have just begun to recover from, yesterday’s destruction.

The Animas River disaster serves as a stark reminder of how extensive the damage already is, and how much we still have to lose.

A Long Postscript

Ever since Ken and I finished 1913 Massacre, I’ve been watching and learning about the resurgence of mining around Lake Superior. I’ve done some research, talked to some good people, and made a few informal scouting trips to the Lake Superior region, to see if I might perhaps produce a sequel to our 1913 documentary. So far, I haven’t discovered the film that I want to make, can make or must make about the new mining; and when it comes to independent documentary, all three of those, the will, the ability and the necessity are — for me, at least — essential.

Finding the film one must make probably matters most of all. So, after our first couple of trips to Calumet, it became imperative that Ken and I make 1913 Massacre. Our sense that this film had to be made, and that we were the ones to make it, was, at times, the only thing that kept us going. We were hooked, ensnared, done for, in the grip of an often wonderful and at times taxing necessity.

There’s already a lot of exploration, leasing and new mining activity around Lake Superior, and things are just getting underway. I am still finding my way, doing my best to keep up with the complex situation and trying to get hold of the narrative, and I’ve written somewhere in the neighborhood of forty or fifty blog posts about the new mining.

Stepping back for a moment, I have to admit I don’t know where exactly all this is leading, or if it’s heading anywhere definitive at all, but it’s in some way a continuation of the journey I started when I followed a Woody Guthrie song to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and the work Ken and I did together to produce 1913 Massacre.

In fact, much of what I’ve written so far reads, at times, like a long postscript to our film, and I still think our film about 1913 speaks powerfully to the situation around the Lake today, so I thought I’d share those blog posts here, if only to connect formally the film and its postscript, past and present.

Palikari: A Film About the Ludlow Massacre

LouisTikas

Ludlow Tent Colony Leader Louis Tikas.

When Bob Dylan performed “1913 Massacre” at Carnegie Hall in 1961, he introduced the song as one of “a group of two” that he had learned from Woody Guthrie. The other song was “Ludlow Massacre.”

In treating the Calumet and Ludlow stories together, Woody was following the lead of Mother Bloor, who groups both stories in her book We Are Many under the single heading “Massacre of the Innocents.” (More on all that here.)

Now there is an independent documentary about the Ludlow Massacre. Palikari – Louis Tikas and the Ludlow Massacre, directed by Nikos Ventouras and produced by Lamprini Thoma.

We haven’t yet seen the film,  but it sounds as if the filmmakers take an approach in Palikari akin to the one we took in 1913 Massacre, exploring the story of  the strike and the brutal murder of Ludlow Tent Colony Louis Tikas through oral histories and family traditions.

You can read an interview with producer Lamprini Thoma about Palikari here.

 

Labor Day – Enjoy Responsibly

Have a great Labor Day.
And don’t forget what it’s all about.

1913 Miners

Les Ross, 1923-2014

Les Ross passed away on Thursday, June 26th, just a month shy of his 91st birthday.

Read his obituary here: World War II (Navy) veteran. Accountant. Father, grandfather and great-grandfather. A Detroit Tigers fan. And a wonderful musician.

Les played lumberjack style harmonica, a Finnish-Scandinavian style in which the melody and a pronounced, rhythmic chording and bass line are played together at the same time.

Ken and I first met Les at the Covington Music Festival, where he appeared with Oren Tikkanen, Johnny Perona, Helmer Toyras and Randy Seppala. The performance we captured that day is featured in the strike scene of 1913 Massacre.

While Ken got up close for handheld portraits of each musician, I had the wider angle: Les against a field of flowers.

LesRossCovington1

For more about Les and his music, check out this Michigan Public Radio profile.

Can Films Still Make A Difference?

(cross posted from my personal blog):

What filmmaker wouldn’t be pleased with a critic like Joan Gibb Engel? Here’s what she writes about 1913 Massacre.

We were treated to a complex story, excellently told, replete with black and white stills from the period depicting the miners, the strikers, the town, the children, and the hall before it was torn down, and there were colorful scenes from the present of townspeople reflecting on the tragedy and their versions of what really happened. It had mystery, drama, sentiment, dance, and of course, the now-famous song sung in the film by Woody’s son Arlo.

Gibb Engel was in the audience when we showed 1913 Massacre at the Calumet Theatre in October of 2012, and she recalls the event in a paper she contributed to Confronting Ecological and Economic Collapse: Ecological Integrity for Law, Policy and Human Rights. (The book came out last year, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I came across her article, while looking for some notice of the film’s May Day screening in Oslo, Norway.)

It turns out that Gibb Engel comes to bury our film, not to praise it. She offers her experience at the Calumet Theatre as a “dispiriting example of the failure of a film to make a difference.”  And it’s not just 1913 Massacre. “I don’t believe a film, even a beautiful one…can do much for us now. We are already too awash in virtual reality depictions of the future, and no generation has had more reason to question their respective validities.”

The question whether a film can still “make a difference” in the world is one I’ve struggled with myself, written about (e.g., here, here and here), and discussed often with friends and colleagues. Gibb Engel arrives at her pessimistic view mainly after viewing and thinking about another film — Journey of the Universe, a big-budget television documentary produced by Mary Eveyln Tucker and Brian Swimme — and then she finds that view reinforced by an exchange she has, or tries to have, with a young man seated next to her at the Calumet Theatre watching our low-budget, independent film.

He was “a local high school student” who had come to the theater that day with his girlfriend, and he “had been playing with his mobile phone prior to the lights going down.” When Ken or I — we usually take turns at this — asked everyone in the audience to please make sure their cell phones were switched off, “he turned it off as requested for the performance.” So far so good! The trouble comes after the film is over, when Gibb Engel

turned to the young man and asked what he thought of it. He answered in a voice completely devoid of colour: ‘it was interesting.’

And on the basis of that exchange, Gibb Engel concludes that 1913 Massacre failed to “make a difference.” What are we to make of this?

It’s worth pointing out that from the very start that Gibb Engel seems to have nothing but praise for the film, but her argument in this paper is an exercise in a foregone conclusion: what she really wants to say here — what she in fact says immediately after having dispensed with Journey to the Universe and 1913 Massacre — is that there isn’t

any way forward except to do what GEIG [the Global Ecological Integrity Group: Gibb Engel’s husband, Ron Engel, sits on the executive committee] and its members have tried to do these past twenty years: make a personal connection with some part of the Earth and help others do the same; work for social and ecological justice; fight for people and policies that matter to the Earth’s flourishing; get our hands dirty.

Exactly how this noble or necessary or dirty work is to be accomplished, and why there should be only one way forward, she does not bother to say. There’s also a whole messy argument to untangle here about the possibility of unmediated experience (of nature) and the role of language, story and representation in forging “personal connections” and helping others do the same, working for justice and fighting for policies, etc. that Gibb Engel doesn’t come close to addressing here. I’m not going to press the issue. Instead, I want to go back to the moment where she turns to the young man sitting next to her in the Calumet Theatre and asks him what he thought of 1913 Massacre.

It’s an odd moment to focus on, and I am reluctant to allow Gibb Engel’s account of her exchange with this young man to stand for the audience’s experience of the film. There were plenty of reasons to think that 1913 Massacre did make a real difference to that Calumet audience — maybe even to that local high school kid.  And this isn’t just because I am one of the film’s producers. The house was packed for three screenings; the crowd gave the film successive standing ovations; the whole house laughed and cried and rode the film like a wave. (My diary of the Calumet Screenings is here). Gibb Engel enjoyed herself as well. But she wants to divert our attention from the audience’s experience (“we were treated to a complex story, excellently told”) to the experience of this one young man.

ow having been a young man of high school age, I can tell you that at that time in my life I probably would not have even managed “it was interesting” if asked by a middle-aged woman sitting next to me what I thought of a film. If I had been there with my girlfriend, as he was, I probably would have been even more reticent; or I might have said or done something awkward in an effort to impress my girl, or disentangle myself from the mutual attention of these two women, or get off the witness stand where this lady had put me. In other words, what Gibb Engel fails to consider here is that “it was interesting” was in all likelihood a social cue, meant to nip the conversation in the bud. (Remember when your parents’ friends used to ask you how things were going at school? “Fine.” It’s still a good rule not to trust anyone over 30, at least until you’re 25 or so.)

Even more puzzling is that Gibb Engel takes her cue from this high school student and then puts the failure to connect in a meaningful way on the young man. But surely Gibb Engel has an important part in the little social drama she describes, as the young man’s grown-up antagonist or interlocutor. That’s the position she’s in after watching the film and turning to the young man; maybe it’s fair to say it’s the position the film put her in. These two probably would never have had occasion to address one another were it not for the fact that they happened to be seated next to each other at the Calumet Theatre for a screening of 1913 Massacre.

So, as my friend Marc Tognotti pointed out when I shared the passage from Confronting Ecological and Economic Collapse with him, 1913 Massacre did make at least one “obvious difference” in Gibb Engel’s world: first of all, it prompted Gibb Engel to turn to the cell-phone- wielding young man next to her and ask what he thought of the film. (And before that, it prompted the young man to turn off his cell phone — to take his life offline and participate in a public screening of a film, or at least sit quietly through it.) And when he gave her a cue “devoid of colour,” Gibb Engel by her own account seems to have let the whole thing drop, without adding any color of her own. She could have offered what she herself thought of the film, expressed the appreciation she later put into writing, asked what he meant by interesting, addressed his girlfriend and asked her what she thought, asked them both if they grew up in Calumet and had ever heard the story. And so on: the possibilities for improvisation, new relationship and conversation after the colorless “interesting” cue were many, especially because in Calumet nearly every high school kid has some family connection to the Italian Hall or the mining operations or the Finnish music Oren Tikkanen sings in our film. Gibb Engel didn’t pursue any of those.

What Gibb Engel doesn’t acknowledge here or anywhere in her discussion of 1913 Massacre or Journey of the Universe is that the difference film or any work of art makes is always one that we have to make, among ourselves. Marc puts it this way in an email:

Our tradition with film and with all art is to believe that meaning resides within the art object, or within the mind of the author/artist, etc.  But the meaning of art, if we take a pragmatist perspective anyhow, is actually something that is realized in the public domain, in how the artwork changes the conversation, changes the way in which people coordinate their actions with one another and towards the world, natural and artificial. Once we realize this, we can stop treating art as something for individual consumption, we can stop objectifying meaning in a way that renders us passive observers, and we can begin to take responsibility for creating meaning and creating change.

The work of art is not just the inhuman object that remains when the craftsman puts down his tools; it is the human activity that can begin only after the artwork is brought into the world.

A Letter to the Students at Lincoln Elementary School In Madison, Wisconsin

thankyoucard

Hi!

We are thrilled that you watched our film and so happy that you took the time to write letters to us and to Arlo and Nora Guthrie.

A couple of weeks ago, Ken and I attended an event honoring Pete Seeger at Symphony Space, here in New York City. Pete was scheduled to receive the first Woody Guthrie prize, but as you may know, he passed away in January. He was 94 years old.

You may remember seeing Pete Seeger in our film. He talks about his friendship with Woody Guthrie, how Woody came to write the song “1913 Massacre,” and how much he learned from Woody about America. Pete spent a lot of time in schools, teaching kids your age and even younger to sing and make music together.

Ever since Pete died, Ken and I have been talking about the time we got to spend with him and wondering what we’re supposed to do now that he’s gone. We hadn’t come up with any real good answers before the envelope full of your letters arrived in the mail.

Some of you (like Ethan and Sam) wrote to us. Most of the letters are addressed to Nora and Arlo Guthrie.

Cora writes to Nora and Arlo to say that “your dad’s songs really mean a lot to people” and Kelly writes to say “thank you for telling about history through your dad’s song. It is a great song.” Landen wants Arlo to know that Woody “is an awesome song writer.” Thanya’s favorite song is ‘This Land Is Your Land.” Rozalin thinks it’s “really cool” Arlo was in the film, and so do we.

Some of you talked about the story our film tells in your letters to Nora and Arlo. A whole bunch of you thought the tearing down of Italian Hall was a big mistake. Evan was surprised to learn that children worked in the mines, and after he saw the film he thought lots about how much has changed since 1913. Paris feels “kind of mad” that people got killed in the Italian Hall. Abishek was struck by Winkie Pyrrha’s story about losing his candy bag after someone yelled ‘Fire!.’ Lucy writes to thank both Nora and Arlo “for honoring that tragedy.”

And so on! There are so many wonderful letters here that we can’t possibly sum them all up. You guys are all awesome and we cherish each and every one of these letters.

Your letters also reminded us that the songs Woody Guthrie wrote and the stories they tell will live on, if we just keep singing. That’s a lesson Pete Seeger would want us all to remember.

Pete Seeger, 1919-2014

Ken emailed late last night with the news that Pete Seeger had died. I found out this morning. We both feel incredibly lucky and blessed to have spent time with Pete, talking about Woody, their time on the road, “1913 Massacre” and all sorts of musical and historical topics.

There was no such thing as a brief visit or a short interview with Pete. Once he got talking, telling stories and playing music, time just opened up and the thought of leaving never entered your mind.

The Times obituary does a pretty good job of telling his life story. I doubt Ken or I have much to add when it comes to the details.

Instead, here’s some unedited footage of Pete.

Pete singing “Soldier and A Lady” — the tune Woody borrowed for “1913 Massacre.”

“The Star Spangled Banner,” sung the way it was supposed to be sung.

A story called “Us and Our Little Teaspoons,” which Pete introduces as a “metaphor” he likes to use when people feel that their efforts to make things better are in vain.

Pete Seeger was so alive and he made so many others come alive. The world is a better and more beautiful place for Pete’s having been in it. It’s hard to believe he’s no longer around.

“‘Well,'” writes Arlo on his Facebook page, “‘of course he passed away!’ I’m telling everyone this morning. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’s gone.'”