So long, 2017…

December 31, 2017

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

True, too true: this past year has been all conflict and contradiction, days of grind and times of glory, moments of dread followed by flashes of ecstasy. The pattern was set right at the start: Trump’s shameful and toxic inauguration, a day of infamy, cleansed and massively repudiated  24 hours later by the remarkable and luminous Women’s March, a day of world-wide jubilation. Twists and turns, heartbreak and hope, a breath-taking tangle of surprises, setbacks, and leaps forward. On and on: Steve Bannon with real clear fascism versus a growing popular resistance. And look up: the year ends with the first group of J20 protesters—the folks illegally arrested in Washington at the inauguration—found not guilty. The beat goes on.

Remembering Fats Domino (who left us this year): “It’s been a thrill!” What else can I say?

Well, for one thing I can say that we’re still here, aren’t we? And I can say that that fact really matters. I can say the fascists have not consolidated power despite their determination and undeniable power. I can say that we’re still living, still putting one foot in front of the other, still finding ways to resist, reimagine, and rebuild. As long as we’re here, there’s hope, and as long as we resist, there’s possibility.

I’m often accused of being an optimist, but that charge is simply untrue—optimists tend toward a kind of cheerful passivity because they think they know what’s up ahead, and I have no idea what’s coming. Pessimists are more cynical, but they, too, think they hold some magical crystal ball, this one revealing the dystopic future in all its exaggerated grimness. They are more cynical, but just as passive and just as delusional as their optimistic cousins. I choose instead to be hopeful precisely because I don’t know what’s next, and neither does anyone else. It’s worth remembering that the day before the kick-off of every revolution in history, common sense held that the revolution was impossible; the day after, the consensus was adjusted: now all the commentators agree: the revolution was inevitable.

Hope and fierce collective determination are choices; confidence is itself a politics. This year I’ll again choose hope and confidence, and I urge you to join me. I don’t want to minimize the horror we’re facing—capitalist planetary destruction; predation and exploitation; war and nuclear annihilation; white supremacy emboldened; gender oppression entrenched; the billionaires’ ball unleashed; settler colonialism in power from Indian Country to Puerto Rico to Palestine—but neither do I want to be sucked into its thrall. There’s also Black Lives Matter and Standing Rock, #MeToo and Undocumented and Unafraid. Hope is that thing with feathers, our antidote to cynicism and despair; it’s the capacity to notice or invent alternatives; it’s nourishing the precious sense that standing directly against the world as such is a world that could be, or should be. Whatever is the case stands side by side with what could be or should be the case. Without that vital sense of possibility, doors close, curtains drop, and we become stuck: we cannot adequately oppose injustice; we cannot act freely; we cannot inhabit the most vigorous moral spaces. We are never freer, all of us and each of us, than when we refuse the situations before us as settled and certain and determined—the absolute end of the matter—and break the chains that entangle us, launching ourselves toward the imaginable.

Remember that when slavery was formally abolished in the US, the former slave-owners assumed the posture of the aggrieved, and so their narrative held that they were the victims of a terrible injustice. Many sought, and some even won, reparations for lost property—unlike the formerly enslaved people (the former “property”) who instead of reparations got Black Codes, Jim Crow, regimes of lynch-mob terror, red-lining, mass incarceration, occupying police forces, and more. For those who’d been blithely enjoying their privileges while riding on the back of Black bodies, justice and fairness—equality—can always be made to feel like oppression. It’s not—it is instead a cruel if powerful illusion. But privilege works like that. Today young people are leading and building a broad and hopeful movement—the next step in the centuries-old Black Freedom Movement—demanding the end of militarized police targeting and occupying Black people and communities, the creation of decent schools and good jobs, the abolition of mass incarceration, reparations for harm done, and simple justice going forward. Black Lives Matter! To some privileged people it’s as if a terrible injustice has once again befallen them—and of course it hasn’t. To proclaim that “Jewish Lives Matter” in Germany in the 1930s would have been a good thing—those were the lives being discounted and destroyed; to say that “Palestinian Lives Matter” in Israel now would be to stand on the side of the downtrodden and the disposable. And to shout out that Black Lives Matter in the US today is to take the side of humanity. Every City Hall and every police precinct should hang a large Black Lives Matter banner over the front door, and then get real about the work needed to bring that slogan authentically to life.

Never for a moment doubt that your life matters, nor that joy in the face of horror can be made into an exuberant act of refusal. Never lose sight of the fact that this life is all you have, that your candle is burning, and that the light will be extinguished soon enough—too soon, in fact, and in the middle of things, your to-do list unfulfilled. So go ahead, suck the juice from every precious moment with uninhibited gusto. Day to day let’s meet up more, face to face, let’s work out more and break a sweat, let’s eat real food (mostly plants and just enough), and let’s be safe and keep each other safe. Let’s dive into the wreckage together and swim as hard as we can in the direction of our hopes. Let’s dial ourselves up to full volume, all the way turned up, all the way human.

In 2018 I’ll work to become a better organizer and to once more be guided by the eternal rhythms of activism: willfully opening my eyes and paying attention every day; allowing myself to be astonished at the beauty and the ecstasy in every direction as well as the unnecessary pain and suffering all around; I’ll rise up and do something about it, say something about it, act out, write it down, write it up; then I’ll try to be thoughtfully self-critical, to doubt, rethink, and start again. That’s my resolution.

I’ll try to be a good comrade and an active ally—listening harder and listening first, finding the wisdom in others, mobilizing other allies. In a deeper sense, ally is not the right word: I want to dismantle all the structures baked into law and custom, policy and politics that insure a society of oppression and exploitation as well as earned privileges. I want to make a revolution.

I’ll try to gather with people in my community and my family, to take the measure of ourselves in order to name and act within this political moment; talk to strangers every day; knock on doors; read everything; distribute information; display my politics in the public square; listen as hard as I can with the possibility of being changed and speak as clearly as I can with the possibility of being heard; learn from my mentors; follow the young; take to the streets; fight the power; kick some ass; encounter art; eat only what I need; ride my bike everywhere; house the homeless; dance the dialectic; stand up for joy and justice, peace and love. I’ll work to build a mighty social movement and never forget that  the Democratic Party cannot be the heart of the resistance to fascism, imperialism, or Trump. It’s up to us.

Another world is surely coming, but there are no guarantees that it will be a better world—work camps and slave states are possible, nuclear war an increasing possibility, planetary collapse on the near horizon. But peace and freedom are possible as well. The choices are stark: socialism or barbarism, chaos or community, the end of capitalism or the end of the earth.

I’ll do my best in 2018 to build the front against the Trump junta continues to try to execute its soft coup, to contribute to the movement for peace in this Spartan military garrison, for racial justice and freedom in this bastion of white supremacy, for economic justice in the heartland of predatory zombie capitalism, for women’s equality and gender justice in this male supremacist bazaar. And that’s not all…

Put this poem by Martin Espada in your pocket to start the year, and go forth with a smile on your face and a song in your heart. :

Imagine the Angels of Bread

This is the year that squatters evict landlords,

gazing like admirals from the rail

of the roofdeck

or levitating hands in praise

of steam in the shower;

this is the year

that shawled refugees deport judges

who stare at the floor

and their swollen feet

as files are stamped

with their destination;

this is the year that police revolvers,

stove-hot, blister the fingers

of raging cops,

and nightsticks splinter

in their palms;

this is the year that darkskinned men

lynched a century ago

return to sip coffee quietly

with the apologizing descendants

of their executioners.

This is the year that those

who swim the border’s undertow

and shiver in boxcars

are greeted with trumpets and drums

at the first railroad crossing

on the other side;

this is the year that the hands

pulling tomatoes from the vine

uproot the deed to the earth that sprouts

the vine,

the hands canning tomatoes

are named in the will

that owns the bedlam of the cannery;

this is the year that the eyes stinging from the poison that purifies toilets

awaken at last to the sight

of a rooster-loud hillside,

pilgrimage of immigrant birth; this is the year that cockroaches

become extinct, that no doctor

finds a roach embedded

in the ear of an infant;

this is the year that the food stamps

of adolescent mothers

are auctioned like gold doubloons,

and no coin is given to buy machetes

for the next bouquet of severed heads

in coffee plantation country.

If the abolition of slave-manacles

began as a vision of hands without manacles,then this is the year;

if the shutdown of extermination camps

began as imagination of a land

without barbed wire or the crematorum,

then this is the year;

if every rebellion begins with the idea

that conquerors on horsebackare not many-legged gods, that they too drown

if plunged in the river,

then this is the year.

So may every humiliated mouth,

teeth like desecrated headstones,

fill with the angels of bread.

Twas the day after Xmas

December 26, 2017
Mike Klonsky wrote a poem for my 60th (13 years ago) that began this way: “Twas the day after Christmas and out in Glen Ellyn, the Ayers didn’t know they were birthing a felon.”
We’re still livin’, still standin’, still fightin’ the power—right to the end.

It’s my birthday!

December 26, 2017
Today is my birthday!
Born: 12/26/1944.
In NOLA with family, remembering so many points of struggle in the ongoing fight for Black Freedom: Ruby Bridges; Canal Street Boycotts; grassroots organizing after Katrina; Homer Plessy and the community response to Plessy v. Ferguson: “…the obligation of the people is to resist oppression…”
In the words of the great NOLA native Fats Domino who passed on this year: It’s been a thrill!


December 24, 2017

Never lose sight of the fact of your own mortality—this brief crack of light between two infinities of darkness. And remember that everything must die—too soon, and always in the middle of things. Get busy!

Blue Guitars—now more than ever.

December 24, 2017
In 2018, we must all break out and deploy our Blue Guitars:
They said, “You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are.”
The man replied, “Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar.”
~~~Wallace Stevens
Resist! Reimagine! Rebuild!

Revolution in our Lifetime!

December 22, 2017
“We recognize our old friend, our old mole, who knows so well how to work underground, suddenly to appear: the revolution.”
~~Karl Marx

Dance the Dialectic!

December 9, 2017

Let’s gather, link arms and build a public square, talk politics and dance the dialectic with Eve Ewing, Kevin Coval, Rachel DeWoskin in Hyde Park:

ALI in Hyde Park

December 8, 2017


December 5, 2017

The charter school crowd surrenders to segregation.

by Fred Klonsky

MacArthur grant winner Hannah Nikole-Jones.

The connection between segregation and quality education was at the heart of Brown v. Board of Education ruling by the U.S. Supreme Court when it banned legalized  segregated public schools  over 60 years ago.

Separate but equal cannot be equal, the court ruled.

Sixty years later segregated schools still predominate in the U.S.

So does the argument that you can have racially segregated but equal schools. What may strike some as odd is that the argument comes from charter school promoters who once claimed that the creation of charter schools were the new civil rights movement

No — what we are saying is that traditional public schools account for 20 times more segregation than charters so if you’re really concerned about it, clean your own house. In the meantime, kids need an education–segregated or not.

— Peter Cunningham (@PCunningham57) December 4, 2017

“Segregated or not.”

That is a surrender to separate but equal.

Of course, Cunningham is right about the public school systems. And fighting to clean up our house – one that reeks of the stench of racism – is exactly what those of us who oppose racial segregation have been up to all these years.

But, unlike the charter promoters, I believe it is all our house.

The charter education reformers are responding to a report from Associated Press.

Charter schools are among the nation’s most segregated, an Associated Press analysis finds — an outcome at odds, critics say, with their goal of offering a better alternative to failing traditional public schools.

National enrollment data shows that charters are vastly over-represented among schools where minorities study in the most extreme racial isolation. As of school year 2014-2015, more than 1,000 of the nation’s 6,747 charter schools had minority enrollment of at least 99 percent, and the number has been rising steadily.

The problem: Those levels of segregation correspond with low achievement levels at schools of all kinds.

In the AP analysis of student achievement in the 42 states that have enacted charter school laws, along with the District of Columbia, the performance of students in charter schools varies widely. But schools that enroll 99 percent minorities — both charters and traditional public schools — on average have fewer students reaching state standards for proficiency in reading and math.

“Desegregation works. Nothing else does,” said Daniel Shulman, a Minnesota civil rights attorney. “There is no amount of money you can put into a segregated school that is going to make it equal.”

Shulman singled out charter schools for blame in a lawsuit that accuses the state of Minnesota of allowing racially segregated schools to proliferate, along with achievement gaps for minority students. Minority-owned charters have been allowed wrongly to recruit only minorities, he said, as others wrongly have focused on attracting whites.

MacArthur “genius” grant winner Nikole Hannah-Jones, writes for the New York Times. She writes extensively about schools and race. She has argued and presented data that the single most effective way to improve school performance for all are racially integrated schools.

I have worked very hard to dispel the myth that somehow segregation that’s not required by law is less harmful, so we should be OK with it. I actually believe what Richard Rothstein believes, which is that much of the segregation we see today is de jure even though we call it de facto. It is a direct result of official action. And even where it’s not, we know that black people, specifically, and to a lesser degree Latinos, do not have the same choices and options as other families do. [They are not] somehow the only groups of people in this country who choose substandard schools and substandard neighborhoods; they are in those schools and neighborhoods because they do not have a choice.

I also try to push back against this idea that we tried really hard to integrate our schools and it just didn’t work. We didn’t try very hard for very long. And when we did try, it did work.

The most common myth that I confront is that racism, discrimination, and segregation are Southern phenomena, when clearly the most segregated parts of the country are in the Northeast and the Midwest—areas with white folks who believe that they are quite progressive, who say they believe in integration but practice segregation. My work in recent years has been most critical in trying to discomfort white progressives who’d like to believe that I’m writing about someone else. Really, I’m writing about them.

A Fire Survivor’s Review of Bill Ayers’ Radical Manifesto

December 3, 2017

An inferno, painting the skies red and filling the air with acrid smoke, raged down on my neighborhood in the early hours of October 5th. Awakened by my son, we had only a few minutes to consider what to take – a picture album, cell phones,
several changes of underwear, toothbrushes, my favorite winter boots, my laptop, a Kamaka pineapple ukelele coveted by my youngest grandson – our cars joining the painfully slow river of evacuees trying to leave the area. The fire was not slow; it jumped around us, lit up a palm tree, leapt over a freeway; our route changed  abruptly several times as the sheriffs, gesturing desperately, shouted “Go! Go! Go!”, directing us away from the crosshairs of the blaze.

We reached safety within the hour and by the next day we were sheltered with family and friends, waiting to hear about our home. The ground had shifted under us and, shaken to the core, we imagined what would have seemed impossible the
day before – that we might lose it all, the tangible memories, the hours spent working in the garden, the books and CDs, our safe place, stripped down to the clothes on our backs, our dog, and each other.

By the middle of the week we learned that the wind had shifted and spared our immediate neighborhood. Our cat had been found and fed by a neighbor who came  back to his house via the nearby creek. He fed our chickens, too. Life would soon
return to normal and on the surface, it did. We ran the air purifier 24/7, planted a cover crop and mulched the vegetable garden, raked up leaves, and each evening I read chapters from Bill Ayers’ Demand the Impossible: A Radical Manifesto to my husband.

I read Ayers’ book last summer and was so impressed that I bought three more copies, one for each of my sons. Now, raw from my trial by fire and touched to the core by the suffering and losses in my community, wondering how we can influence the recovery process towards a new vision, one that takes into consideration the looming threat of climate change in its various guises – flood, drought and fire – I turned again to this manifesto, reading it out loud and savoring with Roland its spirit of hopeful resilience in the face of daunting challenge.

Ayers looks unflinchingly at the facts: the unprecedented number of incarcerated Americans, the trillions being poured into the bottomless pit of an aggressive military empire, the militarization of police, the vast financial discrepancy between the power elite and the rest of us, the privatization for profit of our commons, the resulting crises in health, education, infrastructure and general well- being and, looming over everything, the existential threat of global warming to our biosphere. He brings home that this has happened largely on our watch and that pulling the covers over our heads or allowing ourselves to be distracted by the latest scandals promoted by the corporate media are not satisfactory responses. Instead he calls on us to imagine a different world – a world in which our resources are shared to provide for the basic needs of all people, a world that recovers our humanity from the soul-destroying grip of greed and allows us all to find a role in building a better, more just and hopeful world for our children. He describes education as “powered by a precious and fragile ideal: Every human being is of infinite and incalculable value. . . each a unique intellectual, emotional, physical, spiritual, moral and creative force, each deserving a dedicated place in a community of solidarity”. (pg.161) Ayers exhorts us to “love the world enough to put your shoulder on history’s great wheel” (pg.199) and begin here in our communities, in our daily lives, to throw off the delusion of powerlessness and begin to do the real, messy, engaging work of social democracy – building a healthier, more inclusive, just and sustainable world together.

I love this small book. It sits on my bedside table to remind me of my task as I make the bed each morning. It directs me to look unflinchingly at the ruins and to see them as opportunity as well as tragedy – a chance to do things better through building community and educating each other and sharing our creative talents. It helps me at bedtime when I take a breath after the slog of meetings, conversations and well laid plans gone awry, to remember that, “in our pursuit of a world powered by love and reaching toward joy and justice, imagination is our most formidable and unyielding ally…there is no power on Earth stronger than the imagination unleashed and the collective human soul on fire.”(pg. 196) I think then of my beautiful grandchildren, “each a being of infinite and incalculable value”.

They and all children are carrying the seeds of the future in their souls. I want these seeds to be able to blossom after I am gone. This is not a rational process; my skepticism dissolves as an inner voice whispers that the moment of choice is always now. We can be socially isolated victims of the fire, preyed on by disaster capitalists, or we can be agents of change that rise from the ashes with regenerative vision and strengthened community, defying those who would marginalize or divide us by joining hands, standing together and proving that the changes we envision are not impossible after all.

By Anne Cummings Jacopetti, retired educator and teacher, environmental activist with 350 Sonoma and author of What Are We Going to Learn Today? How All Children Can Become Enthusiastic Lifelong Learners. Contact Anne at