We Must All Stand Together On The Avenue.

The fight for racial justice is everyone’s fight.

They taught me. And I listened. Become a warrior for social justice, racial justice, economic justice. A big world served at our dinner table every night. It excited me. It got my blood going.

My father was no man to trifle with. He ran with things. He spoke in big sweeps. My grandfather too. I saw pictures of him at a round table, linen cloth, shirt sleeves, a cigar in his mouth., fighting for the workers.
Remember that fight? Unions and wages and benefits. My father and grandfather were a pain in the ass of corporate fat cats.

The riots in the streets. The marches. The speeches. The assassinations. They set my mind on fire. I wanted in this fight. We could win. We could make a better world.

I got up from my family’s dinning table and went into the world in pursuit of justice. My weapon a guitar. An earnest heart. We could win.

But I see things differently now. I think I was fighting the wrong fight. I marched in the wrong army. All we did was make it worse. With every cutting song. With every puppet burned in effigy, with every rant posted, we made it worse. Trying to convince. Trying to cohere. Trying to rage.