Category Archives: American

Reappropriating the Bourgeois Revolutions

“We have it in our power to begin the world over again.” -Tom Paine, Common Sense

here is a rather unfortunately amusing predicament a student of bourgeois revolutions will notice upon first foraying into online research databases for primary documents. The databases you frequent, and are in many cases forced to use, hold  a noticeable connection to modern libertarianism and whig liberalism. Revolutions of peasants and merchants are now revolutions of only ingenious merchants; of Locke and Hobbes, and not Lilburne or Winstanley. A professor and I were in one particularly odious case forced to print off John Milton’s Eikonoklastes (in which Milton defends tyrannicide and lampoons the historically stagnant) from the “Online Library of Liberty” (a collection of scholarly works on individual liberty and free markets, as the header proudly proclaims), much to our own perturbation.

One finds this elsewhere, as the popularly published and circulated history of the American revolution is extraordinarily conservative and deterministic with some notable exceptions such as Zinn and Linnbaugh, amongst others. A statue of Nathan Bedford Forrest (the first grand wizard of the Klu Klux Klan) stands proudly in Memphis, but there is only one statue of Tom Paine (author and catalyst of American revolutionary nationalism) in the United States in a small New Jersey town. The peasant rebellions subsequent to the American victory are a mere footnote in history textbooks, only glossed over in most junior high and high school level history courses while the story of George Washington and an unlucky cherry tree endures in cultural memory (in spite of its relationship with truth).

Consistent with the bourgeoisie’s own narrative of its historical finality, the fire of the 17th and 18th centuries has been turned into a stone buttress holding up modern capitalist mythos of free enterprise and personal liberty. To such gentrified narratives, Milton’s Areopagitica is a treatise exclusively on modern freedom of speech and the press, the Leveller’s Agreement of the People is merely anticipatory of american radicalism, the Diggers are an insignificant minority, the English Revolution (sorry, the English Civil War) a battle to get rid of an ineffective and catalytic king (Russel), and the Ranters didn’t even exist at all!

The gentrification, or revision as author James Holstun calls it, of the bourgeois revolutions is a two-way street, however, with many leftists rejecting the revolutionary legacy of the English Revolution (for Cromwell and Ireland), the American Revolution (for slavery) and the French Revolution (for  the “Reign of Terror” and Napoleon). Such an ideological decision plays into the hands of modern counterrevolutionaries who endeavor to appropriate revolutionary history.  The history of class struggle and warfare, even if the victors are the left’s contemporary enemies, is by right (not divine, of course) the area of Marxists and Marxist critics. There is no doubt that the bourgeois revolutions advanced through crippling dialectical contradictions (between liberty and slavery, for example), and Marxists must never let bourgeois theory escape from these historically objective contradictions. Such an activity, however, requires an appreciation of the movement of these revolutions down class lines and their ultimate failure to fufill their most radical goals; requiring mass repressions of radical peasants and workers in each case.

At the heart of historically highlighting the bourgeois revolutions is the central thesis of a modern Marxist approach – revolutions are what change history. Mass movements of people, not singular heads of government, forge in the fire of violent upheaval the existing social order. The Bourgeois revolutions do not suggest the eternal triumph of the bourgeoisie, as many mainstream critics and historians have sought to prove through historical revision and post-modern diffusion, it is, instead, proof of the universality of class struggle; the power of the working classes, and the greater trend of humanity towards the democratization of production. To write off the bourgeois revolutions as historically necessary and inevitable is not only lazy Marxist analysis but it also silences the voices that actively fought against both feudalism and emergent capitalism. To ignore the struggles of peasants and workers in an era before developed capitalism and Marxism is to rob ourselves of a rich history and context for the establishment of our current struggles and dynamics. It is to chain Marxist analysis to the material conditions of the 19th century, an idea Michael Foucault and other post-modernists have endeavored to  establish for several decades; and an idea we must continue to oppose.

Let us then appropriate in this essay, as the bourgeois revolutionaries did in their revolutions, history. Just as Milton would highlight the democratic “nature” of the English people in Saxon times, let  us tell a history that leads to an understanding of these revolutions developed for many decades by Marxist historians across field and era. An understanding that renders the revolutions as a crucible where revolutionary anti-capitalist voices erupted from anti-royal struggles and were violently silenced by emergent capitalist states; revealing, in turn, the true nature of modern capitalist states and mythos.

Armed with Book and Lance: England and the Danger of Peasant Power

 “For the army are acted by their own principles; they are an army that  understands themselves.” -John Saltmarsh, A Letter from the Army, on the New Model Army

Perhaps the most obvious positive outcome of the bourgeois revolutions was the destruction of the feudal mode of production and the states that supported it. In England, in spite of the ultimate failure of the Commonwealth, the bourgeoisie continued to reign supreme into Restoration England, orchestrating the dubiously titled “Glorious Revolution” when fears of James II tolerance of Catholicism was used to bring about liberal reforms. England had become, as author J.G.A Pocock alludes to in his recommendable book The Machiavellian Moment, a society where economic stability was tied to political stability, where stability was tied to the prosperity of all; a convenient ideological strand given the frightening upsurge of peasant consciousness and resistance during the interregnum.

There are two things of import in highlighting this ideological turn in the restoration era bourgeoisie in England. First, the feudal economic system was undone. No longer did a King hold the leash of a parliament, long, short or in between; parliament now held the leash of King and Queen; rather tightly, as the Glorious Revolution illustrates. Second, the economic stability of capitalist England was tied to political stability (read Pocock’s chapters “Court, Country and Standing Army” and “Virtue, Passion and Commerce”) to nurture the later blooming English fear of chaos caused by violent revolution, manifested in Alexander Pope’s rational exultation of inaction in his Essay on Man, Samuel Butler’s lampooning of puritan revolutionaries in his Hudibras, rabid anti-Jacobin tracts, and fearful early-Victorian tracts on continental upheaval (1848). Just what had happened in England during its revolution to elicit such fearful sentiments from the triumphant bourgeoisie and their culture? That, in our effort to render the bourgeois revolutions as class wars alight with ultimately snuffed out peasant consciousness, is worth answering.

The English Revolution is remarkable for its firstness in executing a king, and paradoxically, the revolution’s fairly conservative goals. The poetry of Andrew Marvell and John Milton (Marvell’s Horation Ode, Milton’s 16th Sonnet) reflect a deep anxiety with the violent revolution that killed 100,000 in a nation of five million. The political developments of the period (the Presbyterian parliament, the general unpopularity of the commonwealth government, and the ultimate betrayal of the military in the Restoration) show a keen conservative discomfort with what the revolution had uncovered; notably an English heritage of peasant revolt and consciousness, found politically in 1381 and even in literature in Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene.

The Commonwealth government, despite its enemies’ accusations, advocated itself for fairly conservative measures. Cromwell, and his fellow Grandees (landed gentry and other nobleman of the New Model Army, of which Cromwell was one, who opposed the agitators at Putney) advocated for very little past greater representation and parliamentary autonomy. That’s not to say, however, that radical and future-looking rebel voices didn’t emerge. In fact, the English Revolution is remarkable for the level of dialogue modern readers can find, be it through the Clarke Papers (which record, by quote, the Putney Debates) or the political tracts of Winstanley, Lilburne, Milton, Presbyters, Grandees, Fifth Monarchists and beyond, all of which survive to this day.

These tracts were read by an ever-diversifying populace. When John Milton was born in 1608, approximately 30% of the population in England could read, by the time he died, in 1688, nearly 50% of the society could read. What is the function of this change? Put simply, revolution and puritan egalitarianism (two connected concepts, no doubt), and what Jurgen Habermas would call the public sphere. Gone were the days of Latin texts read by only a handful of souls deciding the fate of an entire nation. In revolutionary England, working class New Model soldiers read and circulated texts, arguing with each other on points of organization, terror, and agitation. These texts, of course, were written in the vernacular. They were printed by the hundreds and thousands with ease. Political consciousness in peasants, women (see: Lucy Hutchenson, Anne Trapnell) and urban proletariat soared. Bibles were read by everyone in a pike battalion and everyone in a parish. The same anti-slavery verses that would so attract radical African slaves to the old testament worked unfiltered through the minds of revolutionary puritans via the Geneva Bible.

Of course, this consciousness and ideology wouldn’t be worth very much if it was not itself conscious of its own potential for realization. This potential was elicited, rather unwittingly, by the Grandee officers who gave the same peasants who had rebelled in 1381 pikes and muskets to do battle against the King. The New Model had, by its very own organization and revolution in military leadership and command, toppled one of the most powerful monarchs in the world. This experience, as James Holstien highlights with precision in his chapter “New Model Soviets” in his book Ehud’s Dagger, garnered a previously unseen level of political, communal consciousness. At Putney, a debate between New Model radicals and Grandees, battalions elected there very own agitator to represent their interests. Agitators verbally acknowledge in the debates that they speak not for themselves but for their troops. This, fundamentally, was revolutionary democracy. Without the legitimacy of state and constitution, New Model soldiers struggled against what they saw as Grandee betrayal.

Predictably, Cromwell and Ireton (a frequently quoted Grandee from the Clarke Papers) responded to these agitator’s cries for universal suffrage with accusations of anarchism and banditry. Cromwell retorted to Rainsborough, the oft quoted agitator, by claiming, “No man says that you have a mind to anarchy, but that the consequence of this rule tends to anarchy, must end in anarchy.” Ireton condemned the leveling ideology at the meeting by asking, “by what right may I not take your property?”

These responses to peasant power, in letter and musket, is anticipatory of the universal repressions of peasants and workers subsequent to each major bourgeois revolution. Critically, we see a keen tension between what the bourgeois revolutions produced as bi-product and what they were prepared to procure politically. Elevated consciousness in the peasants and the wars they were willing to wage to bring together ideal, both religious and political, and reality, posed a grave danger to the triumphant bourgeois state of England. It is for this reason that repressions occurred, and that even through restoration and glorious dynasty change, the bourgeoisie continued to reign supreme in England; in stability, profit, crushing urbanization, and growing inequality.

We must never silence the voices of these agitators because they are inconvenient to our analyses, both left and right. The bourgeois revolutions were not simply anti-feudal, inevitable struggles born of inherent contradiction, nor were they wars for universal freedom and liberty. In between lies a world of both Grandee and Agitator, where both parties battled, and the latter lost. This battle and its belligerents are not insignificant. In the battle, many aspects of modern bourgeois democracy and the mythos that supports it were forged. The martial metaphor, as will be elucidated, is apt indeed.

A Republic of Burned Letters

“-no man hath a right to an interest or share in the disposing of the affairs of the kingdom… that hath not a permanent fixed interest in this kingdom.” -Ireton, Putney

The battles and its ultimate outcome is worth stopping upon, to illustrate how the failures of the bourgeois revolutions to meet their revolutionary ideals can be used as a catalyst in understanding the dominance and weaknesses of modern bourgeois mythos.

I had previously mentioned Jurgen Habermas’ concept of the public sphere and highlighted then only the core and mostly well-respected movements of his theory; chiefly that in Early Modern Europe you see the emergence of a republic of letters (not his term, but a popularly used one) in which textual voices discoursed over vast geographical distance critical problems and issues in society, philosophy, and so on. What many Marxist critics notice upon reading Habermas (a Frankfurt Marxist himself) is that the idea is too glorified, that Habermas believes too strongly that this system actually worked in any measurable amount.

I do not dispute the idea of the public sphere (obviously, having used the concept previously), but I do agree with other critics that Habermas’ vision of it is too idealized. The public sphere functioned down class lines, and was, as alluded to above, working in a society where only half of the population knew to read and write. We must guard cautiously against dubiously claiming the public sphere was anything more than an inter-bourgeois mode of critique and debate. Clearly, as we will revisit and hash out below, many voices in emergent bourgeois society were crushed utterly and violently.

In England, many leveling New Model soldiers refused to go to war in Ireland, earning them jail and expulsion from the army. The Diggers, lead by Gerrard Winstanley, numbering only 50, were attacked by hired thugs of landed gentry (on whose land they lived on the outskirts of) and were eventually dissolved forcefully by Thomas Fairfax and Commonwealth soldiers, with their crops torn out, their hovels burned, and their common buildings torn to the ground. Radical preachers were thrown in prison by a parliament preaching religious freedom. Licensing of texts continued in spite of John Milton’s famous protestation Areopagitica. Perhaps most famously but least importantly, Christmas was cancelled due to peasant revelry and the associated sinning.

Clearly, this was a society much to John Milton’s liking; a society where a privileged, intellectual few men made the decisions for an entire nation, and not a society were millions discoursed on national policy free from repression. What we see in England is, as Pocock is right to trace, republican governance in the true Roman and Greek sense; as Vladimir Lenin was astute to point out, freedom for wealthy men, and not plebs, lest we find ourselves in tyranny (or anarchy, as Cromwell suggested at Putney). Indeed, this was, explicitly, what Milton and many other Commonwealth intellectuals (such as Marvell) advocated for. The rule of the rich was universally preferable to the rule of the emotional and chaotic “thralls” (as Milton called the working class in his Readie and Easie Way).

As many recent scholars have been right to point out, the American revolutionary generation inherited much from its English younger brother. Ben Franklin reflects in his autobiography reading Milton’s political tracts in his grandfather’s library. Tom Paine quotes Milton’s Satan in Common Sense, and Lilburne was widely read. Interestingly, the repression of emergent peasant radicalism was not transcended by a purely temporal shift forward (as a Whig historian might suggest). We see in the Whiskey Rebellion and more particularly Shay’s Rebellion, opposition to the failure of even the Constitutional (as opposed to the confederated) government to achieve the aims of revolutionary peasants and workers met with violent repression instead of an open republican hand or even a concession like the tribune or plebeian council.

In France we find an extremely similar story. The sans-culottes, essentially rioting urban proletariat, were originally used and championed by the Jacobins and their leader Maximilian Robespierre. It was the sans-culottes who most vigorously defended the “terror” against reactionaries and enemies. When Robespierre was executed himself and the Directorate rose to supremacy, the sans-culottes were repressed violently as remnants of a chaotic and tyrannical period. Those two words associated with peasant power should be familiar to you at this point. The offspring of Greco-Roman republicanism shared its deep fear of true democracy and the crucible of plebian control.

“The secret in freedom lies in educating the people, whereas the secret of tyranny is to keep them ignorant.” – Maximilien Robespierre

In total, studying the true, if often not recounted, nature of the bourgeois revolutions; in their deep fear of true democracy and in their brutal repression of emergent peasant power, we find a fruitful theoretical avenue for understanding the formation of modern bourgeois states and their mythos. A Marxist will be eager to use the simple fact that the bourgeois revolutionaries never attempted to provide true democracy or freedom. They never sought to hear the voices of every citizen, and this is flagrantly obvious with the tangential study of bourgeois repressions of peasant movements in each major revolution found above. In spite of capitalist mythos of unlimited freedom and a republic of letters, the history of the revolutions alone (to say nothing of imperialism) proves these to be completely false and even never explicitly desired by the founding fathers in each case.

Given what we have highlighted above, we must refute both whig and crude marxist renderings of the bourgeois revolutions that leave them a lifeless husk of nebulous progress and inevitability. What we find in a true study is quite the opposite – a period alight with bloodshed, rebellion, revolutionary discourses, and tyrannical bourgeois republicanism; where each tract and battle titled the scales of history. Critically, we find in the bourgeois revolutions as an almost unintentional bi-product the empowering of peasants past what the bourgeois leaders were comfortable with. We see peasants and urban proletariat waging war against capitalism as well as feudalism, and forming their own independent organizations with their own representatives.  Their voices are important for us now, in light of whig history coming from both left and right, we find in history that the contradictions of capitalism have not moved an inch. From 1640 to today, from Lilburne to Hampton, the bourgeoisie maintains its deep fear of a people’s tyranny, repressing violently any who would suggest something more; any who would suggest for true universality and not the universality of Rome and Athens, who would endeavor to fulfill the true promise of the revolutionary movements in England, France, and America. Such is the function of the bourgeois state from its inception as we have seen above, but in the history of its forging, what we have endeavored to reappropriate to the history of class struggle, we can find in their own deeds the means for procuring an end of true, universal “liberty, equality, and fraternity.”

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I Am Me: The New Negro in Langston Hughes

I, Too: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-too/

Mulatto: http://www.uncp.edu/home/berrys/courses/hist362/hist362_docs_harlem_renaissance4.html

Goodbye, Christ: http://www.autodidactproject.org/other/hughes-christ.html

            angston Hughes was a writer of prolific prosaic, poetic and theatrical production; making him one of the most well known authors of the Harlem Renaissance. Yet, Hughes remains a controversial figure of the Renaissance, as his peers considered his “iconoclastic, anti-religious and anti-capitalist poems” to be in “bad taste” (Lewis 257). By rejecting the European sonnet and embracing American poets such as Walt Whitman, Hughes created poetry of unique and indebted character emblematic of the time and place of the Harlem Renaissance. A key thematic in the poetry of Hughes and the Renaissance in general is the formation of black identity by African Americans through creative works, or, the formation of a New Negro as defined by Alain Locke. Hughes navigates the concept of the New Negro in many of his poems, going from the defiant despair of Mulatto to the bittersweet I, Too to the triumphant declaration of his Marxist, secular identity in Goodbye, Christ. Hughes’ poems mirror the renaissance itself, as Hughes works through the conflict of forming a New Negro identity in a society still steeped in racism both north and south of the Mason-Dixon Line. By studying the assimilation present in I, Too, the resistance in Mulatto, and the declaratory nature of Goodbye, Christ, a greater understanding of Hughes’ conception of the New Negro emerges. Hughes moves from desire to assimilate and “sing” of America to the disillusionment that would send him traveling to Africa, Japan, the Soviet Union and beyond. This led the poet to seek a New Negro identity in the denotative sense of the term, an internationalist and new identity based in the atrocities of the American past and present. Yet in the end, one that rejected an assimilatory solution in favor of a revolutionary one.

Hughes’ I, Too is one of his most famous poems and it elucidates Hughes’ navigation through assimilation and resistance into a greater American society. The poem begins with the reactive relationship that is the foundation of the poem. Hughes writes, “I, too, sing America. / I am the darker brother. / They send me to eat in the kitchen / When company comes. / But I laugh, / and eat well / And grow strong” (Hughes 257-258). Hughes here is reflecting the foundational ideology of the Harlem Renaissance, that creation and productivity can raise the perception of African Americans in society, and build their “strength.” With one stroke of the pen Hughes rejects white as normative with the use of “darker” as opposed to dark, and with another he establishes his defiance to social segregation and his mounting strength to fight it. In Hughes’ later works, his ability to laugh off the racism of society seems to no longer be present, but here Hughes’ is assured by the antecedent to his strength; that American society will once and for all recognize his strength and beauty. Hughes continues, “To-morrow / I’ll sit at the table / When company comes / Nobody’ll dare / say to me, / “Eat in the Kitchen” / Then. / Besides, they’ll see how beautiful I am / And be ashamed / I, too, am America” (Hughes 258). Hughes’ singling out of the word “then” seems to suggest that the date of his rise is not so finite as “to-morrow” but rather at a date when white culture will not “dare” deny his strength and beauty. Inherent in this message is resistance, as Hughes uses imagery such as strength and beauty instead of intellect for example. Yet the final line of the poem suggests the poet’s desire to affirm his role in greater American society. This is perhaps Hughes’ most idealistic conception of the New Negro, one who tills his own strength and is eventually accepted by the greater American culture.  We can see this in the way the poem progresses on a causal relationship; he will eat in the kitchen yet become strong, then he will eat at the table, then American culture will see how beautiful he is and then he will be a part of America. These last two conclusions are ones Hughes would later find harder and harder to make, and this disillusionment can be found in poems such as Mulatto.

Mulatto is a poem of war, murder and rebirth all over the identity of a mixed child of a hateful father; and in its ten syllable lines the imagery of battle demonstrates a marked move from the thesis of I, Too. The form itself is unique to Hughes, as in Mulatto he is utilizing an English sonnet with an alternating rhyme scheme and a rhymed couplet at the end. Certainly the subject matter could not be farther from Shakespeare’s sonnets, and it can be assumed this is just the reason Hughes decided to use the form for his murderously defiant art. Hughes writes, “I will dispute his title to his throne, / Forever fight him for my rightful place. / There is a searing hate within my soul, / A hate that only kin can feel for kin, /A hate that makes me vigorous and whole, /And spurs me on increasingly to win” (Hughes 263). Here we see a catalyst that is starkly contrasted to the food in the kitchen – here Hughes’ protagonist is feeding on hate; a hate born out of his birth and his subsequent rejection by society for his “bastard birth mark.” In this poem there is no reconciliation, no acknowledgement from the white father and a distinct lack of any avenue for the mulatto in the poem to progress. Hughes here is offering a congruent message to the one offered in McKay’s canonical If We Must Die, as the protagonist accepts a brutal reality yet offers in a last push of defiance a profound sense of resistance. Added to this desperate tonality, Hughes utilizes deeply conflicting imagery throughout the poem, demonstrating the broken nature of his protagonist and the desperation the protagonist feels. Hughes continues, ” Because I am my cruel father’s child, /My love of justice stirs me up to hate, /A warring Ishmaelite, unreconciled, /When falls the hour I shall not hesitate /Into my father’s heart to plunge the knife /To gain the utmost freedom that is life” (Hughes 263). Hughes asserts hate as a product of love, and life as a product of death; imagery that suggests a profound detachment from the purposed suffering witnessed in I, Too. The protagonist is a product of contradiction and “cruelty” and thus reflects these qualities. This is because he has no avenue with which to create his own identity; the mulatto in Hughes poetic project is a product of his rulers and the society around him, and not the flight of his free thinking mind. In Mulatto Hughes presents us with the problem of forming a New Negro identity in a land built from the ground up on sexual and racial violence; how can one define their own identity in a land devoted to defining it for them through violence and hatred? Hughes finds the solution to this question in Goodbye, Christ.

In Goodbye, Christ Langston Hughes delivers us his climactic and declaratory definition of his New Negro, that is, one who is both strong and beautiful and free from the chains of racist American culture and history. The poem is polemical at spots yet it does more than simply say goodbye to a Christian religion Hughes is clearly repudiating within the text. The poem is more involved in class and religious charlatans (Aimee McPherson, “Saint” Becton) than it is specifically any religious belief. The poem also interacts with the agency poetry grants, a theme keenly ingrained in Harlem Renaissance thematics. Hughes writes, “Make way for a new guy with no religion at all / A real guy named / Marx Communist Lenin Peasant Stalin Worker ME – / I said, ME!” (Hughes 267). The poem in general is very declaratory as it commands Jesus to “make way” and “move on out” of the present. In these lines of poetry Hughes defines himself, that is, declares his own self-determination. There is no father figure who controls him, no white people sending him to the kitchen, but rather the singular “I” and his ability to “say” what defines him and indeed his ability to banish religious authority. Interestingly, Hughes finishes a list of Marxist heroes with “ME,” placing himself in his own canon. This is a new synthesis, as Hughes moves to defining his New Negro. Hughes rejects the cannon of America, and instead attributes himself to an arguably antithetical one, one that would subject him to much criticism and even a senatorial summons in the McCarthy era. To Hughes, this new canon empowers the poet as he continues, “The world is mine from now on – / And nobody’s gonna sell me / To a king, or a general, / Or a millionaire.” This thesis is far detached from either I, Too and Mulatto. Instead of “I, too, Am America” we are given “I am ME!” Instead of “Because I am my cruel father’s child” we are given “The world is mine from now on.” Hughes’ New Negro is one that isn’t enslaved to the whims of “Kings…generals…or millionaires” and Hughes elucidates this idea further in his “Advertisement for the Waldorf-Astoria” as he sarcastically celebrates a new hotel in the light of impoverished African Americans in Harlem.  Thus Hughes’ New Negro is one that is not only self-determined and productive but also free from the class structure and cultural canon that systemically oppresses him. This mix of early Harlem ideology and radical Marxism was Hughes’ final, if not controversial, synthesis on the formation of the New Negro.

Langston Hughes, in spite of his radical ideology and rejection of forms, has emerged as one of the most commonly read authors of the Harlem Renaissance. His poetry has become canonical in American poetry, and emblematic of the Harlem Renaissance. This perspective is perhaps flawed, as we have seen in Hughes poetry that he was often at odds with the core ideology of the Renaissance, and he was criticized by his peers for his radical politics and poems about women of the night. By studying the assimilative themes in I, Too, the desperate resistance in Mulatto and finally the new synthesis of Hughes’ vision of the New Negro, a greater understanding of Langston Hughes as a poet of the Renaissance emerges. Hughes rejected assimilation in favor of internationalist and revolutionary sentiments; sentiments that would send him traveling across the globe and place him at odds with many of his Harlem comrades. In short, Hughes defined his new negro with a new canon, one of Marx, Lenin, Stalin, Peasants, Workers and himself; standing against not only Jim Crow and its murderous adherents, but also the leaders who sent African Americans to die in Europe only to see regression at home.

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