Tag: poetry

By Posted on Posted in Activism, Democracy, Demographics/Psychographics, Diversity, Ethics in Government, language, Mindset, People Helping People, Politics, poverty, Psychology, Social and Economic Justice, Talking to the Other Side Tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I was not expecting to be totally blown away by a politician’s victory speech on Election Night. But I was moved to tears several times.

Whether you like his politics or not, you have to acknowledge his oratorical skills—both in the crafting of this speech and in the delivery, where he comes across to me as humble, inclusive, and committed. And if speaking is any part of your communications (which it should be), there are a lot of lessons in this speech.

The politician is Zohran Mamdani, just elected as the first Muslim mayor of New York City—a municipality with more population than 38 of the 50 US states.

You can view it at https://www.c-span.org/program/campaign-2025/zohran-mamdani-election-night-victory-speech/668370 (including the sweet family moment at the very end) and read the full transcript at https://www.nytimes.com/2025/11/05/nyregion/mamdani-speech-transcript.html (I had to set up a free account to see it).

He hits high notes immediately, quoting Eugene Victor Debs, “I can see the dawn of a better day for humanity.” Debs ran for president as an open socialist—from his prison cell. Then Mamdani hits us with this powerful and poetic paragraph centering his working-class base:

Fingers bruised from lifting boxes on the warehouse floor, palms calloused from delivery bike handlebars, knuckles scarred with kitchen burns: These are not hands that have been allowed to hold power. And yet, over the last 12 months, you have dared to reach for something greater.

Next, a hat tip to his opponent, who he wishes “only the best in private life.”

Then came the only thing I would have edited out: “But let tonight be the final time I utter his name, as we turn the page on a politics that abandons the many and answers only to the few.” His deeper meaning is ambiguous, but it could be seen as holding some resentment, not wanting to even speak the opponent’s name again. I would have skipped the first clause and jumped to “We have turned the page on a politics that abandons the many and answers only to the few.” When I listened, I misheard the word “utter” as “honor,” and that may color my negativity toward the bit about not speaking his name.

But he pivots immediately to his mandate for change, for making the city affordable, and for including marginalized populations:

Thank you to those so often forgotten by the politics of our city, who made this movement their own. I speak of Yemeni bodega owners and Mexican abuelas. Senegalese taxi drivers and Uzbek nurses. Trinidadian line cooks and Ethiopian aunties. Yes, aunties.

He then tells stories of a few people he met during the campaign: a man who has to commute two hours each way because he can’t afford to live in the city, another who can’t afford to take a day off, and a woman who says she’d lost her love for her city.

His inclusiveness and focus on the glowing future expand to his enormous volunteer network:

This victory is for all of them. And it’s for all of you, the more than 100,000 volunteers who built this campaign into an unstoppable force. Because of you, we will make this city one that working people can love and live in again. With every door knocked, every petition signature earned, and every hard-earned conversation, you eroded the cynicism that has come to define our politics… To my campaign team, who believed when no one else did and who took an electoral project and turned it into so much more: I will never be able to express the depth of my gratitude. You can sleep now.

Then he acknowledges just how ambitious his goals are:

Central to that vision will be the most ambitious agenda to tackle the cost-of-living crisis that this city has seen since the days of Fiorello La Guardia: an agenda that will freeze the rents for more than two million rent-stabilized tenants, make buses fast and free, and deliver universal child care across our city.

Years from now, may our only regret be that this day took so long to come. This new age will be one of relentless improvement. We will hire thousands more teachers. We will cut waste from a bloated bureaucracy. We will work tirelessly to make lights shine again in the hallways of NYCHA developments where they have long flickered.

Safety and justice will go hand in hand as we work with police officers to reduce crime and create a Department of Community Safety that tackles the mental health crisis and homelessness crises head on. Excellence will become the expectation across government, not the exception. In this new age we make for ourselves, we will refuse to allow those who traffic in division and hate to pit us against one another.

From there, he segues directly into something even more ambitious: confronting a hostile federal government and the bigots who enable it—those who want to sow division and hatred, while he calls for unity and invokes, one after another, Jews and Muslims (two other groups who are often at odds on certain issues)—leading first with the community that he is not a member of, but that I am:

In this moment of political darkness, New York will be the light. Here, we believe in standing up for those we love, whether you are an immigrant, a member of the trans community, one of the many Black women that Donald Trump has fired from a federal job, a single mom still waiting for the cost of groceries to go down, or anyone else with their back against the wall. Your struggle is ours, too.

And we will build a City Hall that stands steadfast alongside Jewish New Yorkers and does not waver in the fight against the scourge of antisemitism. Where the more than one million Muslims know that they belong — not just in the five boroughs of this city, but in the halls of power.

No more will New York be a city where you can traffic in Islamophobia and win an election. This new age will be defined by a competence and a compassion that have too long been placed at odds with one another. We will prove that there is no problem too large for government to solve, and no concern too small for it to care about.

This next bit could sound like bravado—I’d love to hear some specifics on HOW he will meet those high expectations—but to me, it comes across instead as another call for unity and actual bravery: being willing to stand up and be counted—and looking ahead to what future would-be dictators we will need to organize against:

They want the people to fight amongst ourselves so that we remain distracted from the work of remaking a long-broken system. We refuse to let them dictate the rules of the game anymore. They can play by the same rules as the rest of us.

Together, we will usher in a generation of change. And if we embrace this brave new course, rather than fleeing from it, we can respond to oligarchy and authoritarianism with the strength it fears, not the appeasement it craves.

After all, if anyone can show a nation betrayed by Donald Trump how to defeat him, it is the city that gave rise to him. And if there is any way to terrify a despot, it is by dismantling the very conditions that allowed him to accumulate power.

This is not only how we stop Trump; it’s how we stop the next one. So, Donald Trump, since I know you’re watching, I have four words for you: Turn the volume up…

So hear me, President Trump, when I say this: To get to any of us, you will have to get through all of us. When we enter City Hall in 58 days, expectations will be high. We will meet them. A great New Yorker once said that while you campaign in poetry, you govern in prose.

If that must be true, let the prose we write still rhyme, and let us build a shining city for all. And we must chart a new path, as bold as the one we have already traveled. After all, the conventional wisdom would tell you that I am far from the perfect candidate…

He goes on to poke a bit of fun at himself, listing several characteristics that would have been thought of as liabilities—then proclaiming, “I refuse to apologize for any of this.”

And he concludes with inspiration: another strong call for hope:

Let the words we’ve spoken together, the dreams we’ve dreamt together, become the agenda we deliver together. New York, this power, it’s yours. This city belongs to you.

Again, I suggest that you watch the speech, take notes on what you feel did and didn’t work, and think about what you can bring to your own presentations.

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By Posted on Posted in Demographics/Psychographics, Diversity, General Commentary, Innovation, language, Mindset, Psychology, Shel's Personal Life, Talking to the Other Side Tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Screenshot: Opening lines of the poem, "Sometimes the Wolf Cries Girl": Sometimes the hero stumbles/ and falls right off the page./Sometimes the princess…
Opening lines of the poem, “Sometimes the Wolf Cries Girl”

Recently, I posted this poem on Facebook:

A cynical friend responded, “Sometimes…none of this is true.” And I replied,

But all of it is, sometimes. Sometimes is the anchor word here, that allows us to play with our perceptions. All of it is true once in a while, but all of it is not true often enough that the inability to go there feels normative to you. As someone who has spent some big chunks of my life on the margins for various reasons, I can assure you that the narrow, normative, conformist version of reality isn’t real for a big percentage of the population—but who’s in and who’s out might vary over time.

My “margins” experience is both direct and indirect. Directly, I’ve been treated as marginal—”othered”—for living in poverty in my younger years…for not being into sports, hypermasculinity, or TV celebrity culture…for being Jewish…for being bisexual…for being a Northerner in Georgia and an Easterner in Southwest Ohio…And I’ve confronted ageism against both the young and the old—which started when I was very young and has continued now that people are beginning to think of me as old.

But I’ve also worked with a lot of groups that were marginalized in ways outside of my own direct experience of it. In college in the 1970s—long before same-sex couples were socially acceptable—I ran the campus Gay Center and started two more in cities where I had college co-op jobs and went to my first same-sex wedding in 1978 or ’79. I did community organizing around the environment and safe energy all the way back to 1971, when I was a 14-year-old high school junior—and that consciousness didn’t really become mainstream until THIS century.  I worked as a paid organizer for an elders’ rights organization at 22 and 23. I had my consciousness raised about a whole bunch of disability rights and minority rights issues during the six years in the 1990s when I served on my city’s official disability access committee (helping public spaces like theaters and restaurants meet accessibility codes) and simultaneously on the District Attorney’s Civil Rights Advisory Board (sensitizing lawyers, cops, and criminal justice workers to the needs of marginalized communities). I worked for 15 years in that city and 24 years in the neighboring small town where I live now on opening up the electoral process and city/town government to disenfranchised voices. And for more than three years, I’ve been deeply involved with immigration/refugee justice work, including an extended visit to the US-Mexico border where we visited a huge refugee camp daily and heard the stories of some of the most marginalized people in the world. 

This diversity of experience may seem very random—but certain common threads hold it all together into a larger whole that feels coherent and meaningful to me. A few examples:

  • All of this work is about empowering people who have felt powerless
  • All of it embraces the same construct that the poet presents: that just because something is a certain way doesn’t at all mean it’s impossible to change it (I even did a TEDx talk on this called “‘Impossible’ Is A Dare” (it’s 15 minutes long, riffs on a quote by Muhammad Ali that I misattributed at the time, and discusses how socially and environmentally conscious businesses can change the world—to watch, click the link and then click again on “event videos”)
  • All of it works on the theory that change happens faster and more fully when it becomes a movement—while acknowledging that acting alone can still make a significant difference. (I’m very proud of my one-person, three-day demonstration against the US bombing of Libya that drew middle fingers and jeers on the first day, but supportive honks and waves on the third day, as well as many individual conversations with people who thought differently, sometimes reaching common ground and always de-demonizing each other—but I’m even prouder of the broad-based movement I founded that saved an endangered local mountain.)
  • It all recognizes that change happens both internally, inside your own heart and brain, and externally, as the actions of one person or a movement ripple out into the wider world–and as these movements find common ground and begin to work together, discovering their intersectionality: their common struggle.
  • As these movements begin to combine like an amoeba merging with its neighbor, it becomes easier to achieve drastic restructuring of society as people begin to look at solutions to our biggest problems as interrelated, holistic, and systemic.

So yes, we have the power to change ourselves and the world. As the poem says in its final lines,

just because it’s what we’ve been told
doesn’t make it true.

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By Posted on Posted in Arts & Entertainment, General Commentary, Gratitude, Innovation, language, People Helping People, Psychology, Science, Shel's Personal Life Tagged with , , , , , , , , ,
Years ago, I subscribed to Brain Pickings (recently rebranded as The Marginalian): Maria Popova’s amazing twice-weekly celebration of science, art, music, literature, and nature. While I have no memory of how I first discovered it, I immediately embraced the abundant world she lives in, and her eagerness to share the treasures she finds.

First screen of Maria Popova’s introduction to Ursula Le Guin’s essay, On Being a Man”

 
I rarely read it, but I will keep my subscription, thank you. Every issue is a gem—and every issue is a rabbit hole that leaves me following so many links that I don’t emerge for 30 or 60 minutes. And if I only dip in every once in a while, it’s still a special pleasure.
 
Long ago, I resigned myself to knowing that the richness of the world’s knowledge is something I can only skim the surface of, no matter how many books and articles I read and how many podcasts and seminars I listen to. I read more than most people—80+ books and thousands of articles in a typical year—but it’s still 0.000000001 percent of what I COULD immerse myself into, if I didn’t have a life to live, a living to earn, and eyes that need to rest. I’ve made my peace with that reality and don’t waste energy on FOMO (fear of missing out), nor do I beat myself up for not striving harder to soak it all in.
 
I’m really glad I opened today’s newsletter. I followed links to Ursula Le Guin’s poem “Kinship,” which Popova describes accurately as a “love poem to trees.” That led me first to one then another remarkable poem by Jane Hirshfield—the first read by the author and the second by Amanda Palmer (unfortunately, I took an unmarked turn somewhere in the rabbit hole and can’t get back to those—but I did create a long list of Hirshfield poems on Popova’s site). Then I went back to the current edition and read Le Guin’s witty essay on gender pronouns and aging. I could have stayed much longer, following links until my eyes bugged out.
 
In fact, I finally became a paying monthly sustainer just now—something I should have done years ago!

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By Posted on Posted in Arts & Entertainment, Democracy, General Commentary, Peace and War, Politics Tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

For the last 28 years, I’ve lived in or just outside Northampton, Massachusetts. About ten years ago, Northampton established the position of City Poet Laureate, with a two-year term. Until two years ago, the post was mostly ceremonial. The official poet would occasionally show up and read a poem to mark some event or other, but kept a low profile.

Then Lesléa Newman was chosen for the post. She used her entire two years to work as a catalyst to bring poetry to the people–and the people to poetry. She organized event after event, and brought formidable community organizing skills into the task of making poetry relevant to every generation.

Among her accomplishments:

  • Filling an 800-seat theater with a poetry reading involving readers from the community as well as cities within a few hours drive (none of them superstars)
  • Getting poets to agree to write a poem a day for a month and get sponsors to pledge contributions, raing over $11,000 to benefit a literacy program that helps new immigrants
  • Putting together an anthology of local poets
  • Taking poetry programs into the schools
  • Providing exposure to local poets in a newspaper column

    • The list could go on and on. Newman has been a dynamo and an inspiration. Perhaps this is not surprising from a woman whose 57 published books (!) have included such groundbreaking material as Heather Has Two Mommies (possibly the first lesbian-friendly children’s book to get wide circulation, Letter to Harvey Milk, and one of the first novels about bulemia.

    In the United States, we tend to be uncomfortable with intellectuals. People who pride themselves on their lack of knowledge of the world around them actually do grow up to be President (GW Bush) and run for Vice President (Palin). When we do elect a leader who’s an intellectual, like Barack Obama or Bill Clinton, it’s because they disguise it well, and we see pictures of them doing “man of the people” activities like chowing down burgers at McDonald’s (Clinton) or taking his kids to the bumper cars at a fair (Obama). I think the last prominent US leader who was not afraid to show himself as an intellectual may have been Franklin Roosevelt.

    Other countries treasure their artists, and especially their dissident artists. The first president of free Senegal was the poet Leopold Senghor; in the Czech Republic, it was the playwright Václav Havel. In the United States, yes, we’ve had a number of Presidents who’d written books before taking the office, including both JFK and Nixon as well as Obama (and his former opponent Hillary Clinton)–but these people were already in public life when they wrote their books. Outside of the movies, which gave us Reagan, Schwarzenegger, and even former Carmel, California mayor Clint Eastwood, it’s hard to think of major US policy makers who really came up out of the arts.

    We’ve had plenty of dissident artists, some of them even pretty famous (Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Ani DiFranco). But while art can shape people’s movements, as protest folk and protest rock helped to solidify protests against segregation, the Vietnam War and nuclear weapons, it doesn’t seem to shape policy. And in many cases, we find that the dissidents who achieve fame are quieter about their dissent, at least until they’ve already achieved fame (classic example: John Lennon, who did become quite visible in the peace movement after moving to New York). Not too many people stop to analyze the working-class-hero lyrics of Bruce Springsteen and find the progressive values underneath, because it’s cloaked in something that looks superficially like a right-wing version of patriotism. But get down-and-dirty with the lyrics of “Born in the USA”, and you’ll see it’s about a Vietnam vet who went into the army because he grew up in a depressed town, couldn’t find work, and got into trouble–and then after his hitch still can’t find a job.

    Hey, Bruce, ever thought about running for office?Facebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail