Circles. Concentric circles. Rings around rings around rings.
Voices in chorus. Souls in chorus. Harmonized and full.
Drums and hearts
Voices calling for justice.
Voices calling out. A call and response.
Circles of people walking. Hoping.
People being present.
Accounted for.
Accountable.
Madison Wisconsin on a cold snowy February day. The capital building, made around a circle. Made to honor a circle. Surrounded by concentric rings of people. Surrounded in sound and in sign, and in the palpable aura of presence. Madison Wisconsin in February. A building between two frozen lakes. In the midst of the heartland. In the grip of the working class, and the teachers, and the firemen, and the electricians, and the truck drivers. With a convoy of yellow taxi cabs circling, honking, in rhythms with the chants of the protests. Coffee cups and signs held in hands that hold peoples’ lives together. Calls for justice. Calls for recognition of efforts made, and hours devoted, and cars started early in the mornings to get to jobs of service. Drums beating, voices speaking to heads nodding. Affirmations made. Recognitions and appreciations applied to the workers in a land of milk and cheese. Union people who move products, and care for children, and nurse wounds, and light the streets for Christmas celebrations. Children who love teachers, or whose parents teach other children. People who work to make a living standing in opposition to people who live to make a profit. The politics of capital and outside influence of the wealthy coming to a head. In Madison. In the land of Dairy farms and snow. The hope of young kids sleeping on the marble floors. Who spend their days making signs and posters to tape to the walls.
Voices in chorus. Souls in chorus. Harmonized and full.
Drums and hearts
Voices calling for justice.
Voices calling out. A call and response.
Circles of people walking. Hoping.
People being present.
Accounted for.
Accountable.
Madison Wisconsin on a cold snowy February day. The capital building, made around a circle. Made to honor a circle. Surrounded by concentric rings of people. Surrounded in sound and in sign, and in the palpable aura of presence. Madison Wisconsin in February. A building between two frozen lakes. In the midst of the heartland. In the grip of the working class, and the teachers, and the firemen, and the electricians, and the truck drivers. With a convoy of yellow taxi cabs circling, honking, in rhythms with the chants of the protests. Coffee cups and signs held in hands that hold peoples’ lives together. Calls for justice. Calls for recognition of efforts made, and hours devoted, and cars started early in the mornings to get to jobs of service. Drums beating, voices speaking to heads nodding. Affirmations made. Recognitions and appreciations applied to the workers in a land of milk and cheese. Union people who move products, and care for children, and nurse wounds, and light the streets for Christmas celebrations. Children who love teachers, or whose parents teach other children. People who work to make a living standing in opposition to people who live to make a profit. The politics of capital and outside influence of the wealthy coming to a head. In Madison. In the land of Dairy farms and snow. The hope of young kids sleeping on the marble floors. Who spend their days making signs and posters to tape to the walls.
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