Yesterday, we reported that a passel of grotesque Dickensian caricatures gathered in the House of Representatives to vote, by a margin of 217-213, to let poor people die and to punish women for the blasphemy of having a vagina, effectively putting some 24 million Americans at the perpetual risk of poverty should they fall victim to accident or debilitating disease—a monstrous display of selfishness that, by their own admission, many of them performed solely out of adherence to partisan dogma and unabashed spite, and a ghoulish, symbolic bloodletting ritual that they then commemorated by drinking Bud Light. However, we have now learned that they did not, in fact, drink Bud Light.
On Tuesday, Feb. 26, 1935, Virginia Woolf wrote in her diary that after “a very fine skyblue day,” she was “plagued by the sudden wish to write an Anti fascist Pamphlet.” She talked it over with her husband Leonard, who “was extremely reasonable & adorable, & told me I should have to take into account of the economic question.” …
For Woolf, the origins of fascism are inextricably tied to the patriarchy. A quotation she read in the newspaper from a man who claimed that women who work emasculate men by relieving them of their duty as provider seemed to crystallize the issue for her. “There we have in embryo the creature, Dictator as we call him when he is Italian or German, who believes he has the right, whether given by God, Nature, sex or race is immaterial, to dictate to other human beings how they shall live; what they shall do.”
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
The following is excerpted from a wonderful article by Richard Just titled Why Phil Ochs is the obscure ’60s folk singer America needs in 2017. Although reading the full article from the Washington Post is important, the collection of vintage videos featuring Phil Ochs is priceless.