copied, and pasted from Amanda Palmers original post: connecting the dots in fergusen, care of my dad, jack palmer. Almost exactly fifty years ago James Powell, a 15-year old black, was shot and killed by a policeman in New York City. The ensuing riots lasted a week, resulting in one death and some 500 injuries. The policeman claimed he had been attacked with a knife, seen by none of the eyewitnesses to the shooting, and was cleared of wrongdoing by a grand jury. Soon after, Phil Ochs wrote “In the Heat of the Summer.” “In the Heat of the Summer” Phil Ochs In the heat of the summer While the pavements were burning The soul of the city was ravaged in the night After the city sun was sinking Down the street they were rumbling Bricks were heavily flying Oh where, oh where were the white silver tongues Who forgot to listen to the warnings? Drunk with the memory of the ghetto Drunk with the lure of the looting And the memory of the uniforms shoving with their sticks Asking “Are you looking for trouble?” “No, no, no,” moaned the mayor That’s not the way of the order Stay in your homes, please leave us alone We’ll be glad to talk in the morning.” “For shame, for shame,” wrote the papers “Why the hurry to your hunger? Now the rubble’s resting on your broken streets And you see what your rage has unraveled.” And when the fury was over Shame was replacing the anger So wrong, so wrong, but we’ve been down too long And we had to make somebody listen. Into its third century, our country is still dealing with all the noxious results of racial intolerance, now compounded by inequality and diminished expectations. “Where, oh where were the white silver tongues?” indeed. (thanks dad)
Posted on: Wed, 20 Aug 2014 00:03:45 +0000
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