Emma Goldman's Siren Song

The evening had been well-advertised.

September 3rd, 1901
8pm at the Labor Temple
Emma Goldman
Political thinker and philospher
Will give a talk entitled...

"Freeing One's Self from the Chains of Injustice"

Now, however, it looked as though she wouldn't be allowed to speak.

"Inciting Revolution successfully can be an art form in itself," Emma mused dispassionately as she watched two of New York's finest shove their way up to the podium to pull her away from it.

The first cop, a burly, bull-necked tough whose breath smelled of whiskey, grabbed one of her wrists and snarled, "we don't want your kind here, you anarchist bitch."

The other, a swarthy little man who reeked of garlic, wrenched her other arm roughly, but the physical discomfort didn't bother her near as much as having to watch the distressed looks of concern on her supporter's faces as they vented their impotent anger.

Yet she felt strangely detached from it all, as though she was an actress who had just played out her death scene and was now awaiting the curtain call and an opportunity to take her bows. The authorities had drawn the heavy velvet curtain of censorship on her evening performance, but at least the leaflets had been distributed. Maybe the written word could incite someone to action. After all, hadn't her own beloved "Sasha" put his life on the line. He'd attempted to assassinate that Capitalist whore Frick after that manager of the Homestead Plant had called in the Pinkertons to put down a work-stoppage. Several of the strikers had been murdered.

Both she and Sasha had felt that their deaths merited vengence. Sasha proved to be a better lover than an assassin, though, and Frick survived his attempt to kill him. Now Sasha was languishing in a prison cell. Despite his failure, she still believed in "The Attentat;" the use of a targeted act of violence to inspire political and social change. She'd written in the tracts that she'd prepared for today.....

"No real social change has been brought about without Revolution.
Revolution is but thought carried into action."

She'd also quoted from THE ALARM in the leaflets that had been distributed.....

"From thought to action is not far, and when the worker has seen
the chains, he need but look a little closer to find near at hand, the
sledge with which to shatter every link. That Sledge is Dynamite."

She'd written the words that she'd delivered with such passion in an earlier address, an address that earned her a stint in jail. The thought of that experience still angered her. Imagine. Jailed simply for exercising one's right of free speech. Not in some European monarchy, but in America, the "land of liberty."

"Workingmen - I call upon you. Arm yourselves. Demonstrate
before the palaces of the rich. Demand work. If they do not give
you work; demand bread. If they deny you both, take bread. It is
your sacred right."

Maybe her words would reach one soul. Maybe they'd kindle a spark. She's written once that......

"Idealists are foolish enough to throw caution to the winds.
They have advance mankind and have enriched the world."

She sighed as the minions of authority led her away. It was about what she'd expected. "The most unpardonable sin one can commit in a regulated society is independence of thought." Suddenly she allowed a wry smile to momentarily soften her stern, outraged features. How vain and ludicrous it was of her to be thinking of words that she had written in the past when the government had stifled her attempts to speak this evening. The law had silenced her tonight. But maybe, just maybe, a man: a warrior-poet, a working-class hero had been moved by the power of the words in the leaflets that had been distributed.

Leon Czolgosz read through the leaflet again and scowled. Emma had written....

"It is organized violence at the top which begets
Individual violence at the bottom. It is one's accumulated
indignation against organized wrong, organized crime,
organized injustice which drives the individual act."

His mind was hearing the seductive song of the Lorelei of the Anarchists. He reflected back upon the last two Presidential elections and frowned. The rich had pulled out all the stops to insure McKinley's election, even going so far as threatening to close the doors of their businesses if that radical, Bryan, was elected. They poured plenty of money into McKinley's re-election campaign as well. People who wouldn't give a loaf of bread to a starving child would donate plenty of money to ensure that they could keep grinding their heels in the workingman's face. What a fraud the election had been upon the people. Emma had been right when she'd written that "if voting changed anything, they'd make it illegal."

He had tried writing a poem to express his disgust with the election, but other than the refrain, he'd been dissatisfied with it.

"Hearst's press had used threats, intimidation and lyin
To steal the election for Mckinley from Bryan.
So, cast your ballot with a bullet;
You've got the power in your hand.
Feel the power? Now just pull it
To make some changes in your land."

He glowered at his bowl of watery soup, with the neck bone that he'd had to boil for the second time. He looked in dismay at the battered furniture in his tiny apartment. Then he thought of McKinley who drinks good wine with his meals; wine that is served to him in silver goblets. Just a businessman's tool whose pockets are lined with Wall Street and railroad tribute, that's all he is. A Judas, fingering his silver as he watches the poor being crucified upon crosses of gold. The pale, intense young man in the shabby apartment thought it a crime.

"It is not right that we have so little," he shouted, pounding his fists on the table, ":and one man have such riches and influence."

At that moment Leon Czolgosz envisioned himself a hero; a catalyst, a righter of wrongs, a changer of history.

"Cast your ballot with a bullet;
You've got the power in your hand.
Feel that trigger? Now just pull it
To make some changes in your land."

Emma's lips were set in a grim frown as they led her away. Revolution was rampant in Europe. The crowned dinosaurs were huddling together in fear. In Russia the Czar was no longer being followed in blind obedience. It wouldn't be long until he would be toppled from his throne.

In the United States, though, it was hard to arouse any interest in the movement. Labor unions were being broken; Union leaders were being jailed on trumped-up charges, and in some cases, like those of the Haymarket heroes, even executed.
That travesy of a trial had given the movement martyrs to venerate.

But the country was strong; dynamic as a young man flush with health and confidence. It was a world power now, fresh off a victory in a one-sided quarrel against the doddering old Spanish Empire; a flex of expansionist muscles that William Randolph Hearst had christened "A Splendid Little War." Her message seemed to bear as little hope of bearing fruit as apple seeds would if sown into New York sewers.

In New York, though, a pale, intense young man had just purchased a pistol and a ticket to Buffalo. He had a rendezvous with a President.

"Cast your ballot with a bullet;
You've got the power in your hand.
Feel that trigger? Now just pull it
To make some changes in your land."