plight in this country is a tragic one, and we must all work to alleviate it. But though it will apparently come as a great surprise to you, Sam, I am not myself a negro. My looks do allow for that mistaken impression—I mean my dark complexion, the broad base of my nostrils, and so forth. But my ancestry is Spanish and Aztec. Not African. I’m a great admirer of the negro race. In my judgment negroes are a superior people, decent and kind, far superior to whites in ordinary relations. But I don’t happen to be one of them.”
Fielden looked utterly stricken. Lucy’s heart went out to him, despite herself, and as if to say as much, she let her arms, which had been tightly folded across her chest, drop to her sides.
“Doubtless my dark skin,” she said, her tone decidedly more conciliatory, “misled you. It does many people.”
“Oh yes, many people, Sam, I can assure you of that!” Lizzie was quite overwrought.
Lucy raised her eyebrows in surprise. She stared hard at Lizzie. “Many people?”
Having said more than she’d intended, Lizzie now busily backtracked. “Oh just neighbors, you know … a few of the neighbors.”
Lucy took in a deep breath. “I don’t want to know their names,” she said regally.
“There’s bound to be talk, you know that,” Lizzie said, intending comfort but falling far off the mark. “You and Albert have different skin color … it sets people to wondering, that’s all …”
“Yes, that is all. I suggest we consider this subject closed. Permanently closed. Why don’t we return to some lighter matter—like dynamiting police headquarters, say.”
Lucy’s humor was so unexpected that Lizzie burst out laughing. Fielden managed a weak, tentative smile. Within a minute or two he regained enough composure to beg Lucy’s forgiveness for his “stupidity,” and to express the hope that they might yet become good friends. Lucy said she was sure of it.
They had now reached the gate.
Part Three
The Diary of Albert R. Parsons
I have this day, May 3, 1877, decided to keep a daily journal, or as nearly so as I can manage. With my increased involvement in the new Workingman’s Party, Lucy says I have a responsibility to record what I see and hear. The lives of working people like us don’t often get written down; our stories and struggles don’t get passed on to the next generation, or into the textbooks. The monopolists control history to the same extent they do the economy. Since I aim to keep this record as honest as I can, I need to confess at the start that I also have my vanity; this diary will help to preserve my name for posterity. No man wants to leave without a trace.
I’m aware that the passion I’ve begun to feel about what’s going on in this city and country might color the truth of what I set down. Yet I believe my concern allows me to see a side to events that the disinterested might miss. Anyway, I vow to do my best to create an accurate chronicle of events. Alas, I’m not a writer. I don’t have the imagination for it. The best writers can invent whole stories. Perhaps it’s just as well I can’t.
Of late, I’ve become in demand as a speaker. People want to hear what the Workingmen’s Party stands for and are kind enough to say I have an oratorical gift, that I’m able to explain complicated issues in a way they understand. I suspect the prime reason I’m beginning to be pushed front and center is because there are so few American-born speakers in the Chicago section of the WP , other than John McAuliffe, Philip Van Patten, and myself. The concern is that the party will be stigmatized as “foreign-run” and that native-born workers will shun it on that account.
I’ve already been as far east as Philadelphia and have seen a lot. Enough to know that Spies is right: many of our fellow wage-earners are ignorantof their own best interests and blind to the value of organizing. Their employers encourage this by misrepresenting the WP ’s
Fielden looked utterly stricken. Lucy’s heart went out to him, despite herself, and as if to say as much, she let her arms, which had been tightly folded across her chest, drop to her sides.
“Doubtless my dark skin,” she said, her tone decidedly more conciliatory, “misled you. It does many people.”
“Oh yes, many people, Sam, I can assure you of that!” Lizzie was quite overwrought.
Lucy raised her eyebrows in surprise. She stared hard at Lizzie. “Many people?”
Having said more than she’d intended, Lizzie now busily backtracked. “Oh just neighbors, you know … a few of the neighbors.”
Lucy took in a deep breath. “I don’t want to know their names,” she said regally.
“There’s bound to be talk, you know that,” Lizzie said, intending comfort but falling far off the mark. “You and Albert have different skin color … it sets people to wondering, that’s all …”
“Yes, that is all. I suggest we consider this subject closed. Permanently closed. Why don’t we return to some lighter matter—like dynamiting police headquarters, say.”
Lucy’s humor was so unexpected that Lizzie burst out laughing. Fielden managed a weak, tentative smile. Within a minute or two he regained enough composure to beg Lucy’s forgiveness for his “stupidity,” and to express the hope that they might yet become good friends. Lucy said she was sure of it.
They had now reached the gate.
Part Three
The Diary of Albert R. Parsons
I have this day, May 3, 1877, decided to keep a daily journal, or as nearly so as I can manage. With my increased involvement in the new Workingman’s Party, Lucy says I have a responsibility to record what I see and hear. The lives of working people like us don’t often get written down; our stories and struggles don’t get passed on to the next generation, or into the textbooks. The monopolists control history to the same extent they do the economy. Since I aim to keep this record as honest as I can, I need to confess at the start that I also have my vanity; this diary will help to preserve my name for posterity. No man wants to leave without a trace.
I’m aware that the passion I’ve begun to feel about what’s going on in this city and country might color the truth of what I set down. Yet I believe my concern allows me to see a side to events that the disinterested might miss. Anyway, I vow to do my best to create an accurate chronicle of events. Alas, I’m not a writer. I don’t have the imagination for it. The best writers can invent whole stories. Perhaps it’s just as well I can’t.
Of late, I’ve become in demand as a speaker. People want to hear what the Workingmen’s Party stands for and are kind enough to say I have an oratorical gift, that I’m able to explain complicated issues in a way they understand. I suspect the prime reason I’m beginning to be pushed front and center is because there are so few American-born speakers in the Chicago section of the WP , other than John McAuliffe, Philip Van Patten, and myself. The concern is that the party will be stigmatized as “foreign-run” and that native-born workers will shun it on that account.
I’ve already been as far east as Philadelphia and have seen a lot. Enough to know that Spies is right: many of our fellow wage-earners are ignorantof their own best interests and blind to the value of organizing. Their employers encourage this by misrepresenting the WP ’s
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