The thread about the "scientist congressman" prompted memories of my own experiences with a "scientist congressman", back in my days as a young radical activist . . .
Back in the late 80's/early 90's, I lived in the Lehigh Valley, Pennsylvania -- Allentown, Bethlehem, Easton. The armpit of the Rust Belt. Bethlehem Steel ran the whole town, and was daily threatening to close down plants if they weren't given more money from somebody. The "progressive movement" consisted of the local Democratic Party, made up mostly of old fossils and supported mostly by local labor union figures, who were also old fossils. There was a smattering of church-dominated "peace and justice" groupuscules.
When a few friends joined me in forming a local chapter of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW--the Wobblies), it was like setting off a hand grenade in a china shop. The group quickly grew to almost 200 members and supporters. And since I was freshly fired from my job in the Bethlehem Steel headquarters mail room (a story involving a t-shirt), I had lots of free time on my hand, and a weekly check from the state of Pennsylvania to pay for it all.
No sedate leafletting or orderly picketing for us. No siree Bob. We practiced the "Abbie Hoffman" school of political protest. When a local environmental coalition picketed a hearing that was to approve using toxic waste as fuel for the local cement kiln, we put a bed out on the sidewalk, dressed up two dudes in men and women's undies and put them under the covers together (the regulators and the polluters, in bed with each other). When George Bush Sr dropped by Allentown to give a talk at a local school, we camped out right by the front door -- and when some guys in black suits tried to move us to a "free speech zone" behind the building, we told them that, last time we checked, the entire goddamn United States was a "free speech zone", and the only way we were moving is if they physically dragged us away, kicking and screaming, in front of all those TV cameras. Poor Bush had to walk right past us.
Our favorite target, though, was the local Congressman. Don Ritter had a masters degree in physics, and liked to refer to himself as the "Scientist Congressman". He was an ethusiastic Cold Warrior, never met a military budget that he didn't want to increase, hated unions, loved Bethlehem Steel, and thought environmentalists were tools of the Cubans or something. We protested at his office so often that he was soon on a first-name basis with all of us, and his staff took to referring to us as "The Order of Lenin".
Once, an inadvertent typo in one of our leaflets announced that we would be having a protest rally in Ritter's office, rather than at it. That prompted a nervous phone call from a staffer, asking if there was, uh, anything he could do for us. No, we cheerily told him, we can handle things on our own, thanks. A few days later, Ritter was treated to a sign-waving crowd demanding that he do something to help the striking coal miners in the Ukraine (that strike, incidentally, was the spark that set off the collapse of the Soviet Union). The poor guy was utterly baffled -- how the heck can a Cold Warrior like him respond to a bunch of commies who tell him he's not being hard enough on the Soviets? The press loved it (we had a friendly contact at one of the local newspapers).
In the 1992 election, Ritter was matched against Democrat Paul McHale. None of us knew the guy, but we did know that we had to have some fun with Don. And fortune indeed smiled on us -- one of our acquaintences was Mike Solomon, a brash young Democratic campaign manager (he once told the newspapers that one of his opponents was "an intellectual eunuch") who had done a few local campaigns (coroner, for one) and some recent campaigns for the state house of reps. Alas, he also had the unfortunate distinction of having lost every campaign he ever managed. For some reason that I still don't understand today, though, Don Ritter asked him to manage his 1992 campaign -- and for some other reason that I still don't understand today, Solly accepted. Maybe he just needed the job.
After a few weeks of not talking to him, we at last realized the priceless opportunites for deviltry that it represented. So we talked a few friends into sending a check to the Ritter campaign under the name "Dykes for Don", just to see if the rabidly homophobic Don would take the money. (Of course he did, silly.)
As election night 1992 began, the local Wobbly contingent was at the Democratic party central, at the local Steel Workers Union hall. By the time Ritter conceded the race, we were already comfortably numb, so some of us piled into my 1981 station wagon and decided to drop on over at the Republican party (at a ritzy hotel in Bethlehem) and console/congratulate poor Solly for losing yet again. We got as far as the front door when a couple guys in dark suits stopped us and asked us, uh, where we were going. "It's OK," one of us said helpfully, "We're with Solly". We were about to get thrown out when Solomon spotted us and rushed over, giving me that "Lennnnnny, what are you up to . . . ?" look. After swearing on the head of my mother that we'd behave ourselves, Solly escorted us in and sat down with us at a table right in the front, next to the big-screen TV that was periodically delivering more bad news for the Repugs. So there we were, five of the most scraggly-looking ruffians you can imagine (who had only an hour earlier been drinking beer out of paper cups with a bunch of people wearing flannel shirts and sneakers)-- sitting in the midst of hundreds of suit-and-ties and sequinned gowns who were all looking at us as if we had just stepped in something -- drinking champaign out of a glass and cheerily toasting the downfall of the Republicans every time the updated results flashed on the screen. Talk about "class struggle". It was surreal.
Before long, Don himself came to our table and sat down. "Nice of you to come", he smiled wanly.
A few minutes later, though, a local gay activist of our acquaintence walked in. Apparently he was smarter than us, because he was dressed in a suit and tie and had no trouble getting past the gatekeepers. Alas, though, one of Don's staffers recognized him, and before we knew it, a conversation started between them that got, uh, louder and more animated with each moment. When two security guys dragged Bill out, and Solly was giving us That Look, we decided that it'd be a good time to mosey on out. As I got up to leave, I shook Ritter's hand and told him, "Well, Don, at least now you and I finally have something in common."
"What's that?", he asked.
"We're both unemployed."
A few months later, I got to meet the new Congressman, Paul McHale. I was speaking at the dedication of a local monument to injured workers (we had some friendly contacts at the AFL-CIO, who always made sure one of us Wobblies was invited to speak--we were sort of their pet radicals). I still remember the (very short) standard stump speech I gave at every such event:
"Fellow workers:
When I was in school, I was never taught anything about labor history. All I was taught was that some kindly old men in Congress decided to pass a law one day to make things better for workers. It wasn't until I got out of school that I learned that the labor movement has a history -- and it's a history of struggle and warfare.
We need to keep in mind a few fundamental things. The business interests aren't in business to give us jobs. They're not there to make money for us. The business interests have never given us a goddamn thing -- everything we have, we have because we organized for it, we fought for it, and very many times, we died for it. And if we forget that -- if we forget who we are and where we have come from, then everything we have will be gone.
We are not humans to them. We are equipment. We are no different than a computer terminal or a tow-motor or a pallette jack. We are just something else that they have to pay for if they want to make money. Just another thing that they buy as cheaply as they can, use until it wears out or breaks down, then throw away and buy a new one. And when they buy a new one, they don't care what color it is or what language it speaks or what country it comes from. All they care is "Can it make me money better than that one over there?"
We need to keep in mind the words that my fellow Wobbles spoke almost 100 years ago; "The working class and the employing class have nothing in common. Between these two classes, a struggle must go on, until the workers of the world organize as a class, take possession of the means of production, and abolish the wage system."
Thank you very much. One big union, one general strike, and Solidarity Forever!"
It so happened that Paul McHale spoke shortly after I did, and his opening words were, "Hi, I'm Paul McHale, and I'm one of those kindly old men in Congress." We ended up sharing a few beers afterwards.
I left the Lehigh Valley a few years after that. The depressing atmosphere (economic and social) was unbearable. So I moved to . . . Florida. Yeah. Where I can't swing a dead cat by the tail without smacking a right-wing fundamentalist militia kook. I may indeed be the only radical in the entire state.
:)