IWW Olympia Branch
Train Riding subCommittee
Wall Reportback part 1
It’s that time again fellow workers. Gonzo Wobbly reporter of doom is back from the brink with a fresh hot revolutionary story of love and war to give you, my dearest fellow worker, a momentary euphoric dose of info-tainment. Because nothing says solidarity like burning my fucking eyes out trying to write this goddamn thing.
Editor’s note: This reportback will not feature any sex. Our Gonzo Wobbly reporter has informed me that the warning “Don’t try this at home,” might not have been obvious in previous pornographic reportbacks. Sex is dangerous and should only be attempted by trained professionals. Fellow workers attempting to have sex should consider themselves warned. You will get hurt.
Let’s start with some traveling. Cruising down the road crammed on top of four cylinders of conventional transportation, the committee and I high tailed it south, forgoing our locomotive namesake for an automobile. Because you see, fellow worker, we were invited to join the revolutionaries down at the border, to help stand up against Trump’s Wall, and we didn’t have any time for romantic narrative integrity.
So we motored from the endless snow of the white ethno-state of South Dakota to the mountain hideouts of workers in Denver to the great tortilla flatness of Amarillo, Texas to the galactic starry sky over Gallup, New Mexico, and from the whiskey whiskered pirates of New Orleans to the interplanetary front lines of San Juan, Texas.
To the reality show itself, where the metal prick on Trump’s own industrial death cock fucks straight into your ear, where federal government UFOs abduct so-called “illegal aliens” at night. Where grinning gestapo goosestep in naked displays of gathering war. Welcome to the Wall, fellow worker.
You know, this is all like a sequel of The Black Hills Special Reportback series (Fear and Loathing in South Dakota). The Crazy Horse Collective and the committee at this point were one and the same. We had came on behalf of both in the name of mutual aid.
We first arrived at the National Butterfly Center in San Juan Texas, southernmost tip of the state we aren’t supposed to mess with.
I spilled out the door into the parking lot, wretched creature that I am, while my companions exited with their individual grace each of whose characters are too large for life and whose descriptions would defy the thin suspension of disbelief I can assert from you, fellow worker.
You see, the magical monarch butterfly has a breeding ground here that pulls in tourists from around the world. Every spring every inch of the environment is coated in these beautiful creatures as they make their mythical migration across the continent.
But of course, migration is super verbotten to the ingrown toenail creatures known as fascists. And so not only are they erecting a pointless wall, they are destroying everything within three hundred yards in either direction of it. That means the butterfly habitat is in the process of being clear cut.
I don’t have to point out, but I will, that walls don’t even stop human migration, since there’s a thing called AIRPLANES. But they do stop other mammals migrations, which sucks, because all the animals are going fucking extinct. And I love animals.
Wandering around the wreckage asking myself the perennial question, “Where the hell is the revolution?” I observed stubborn tourists, there to get a Polaroid with the endling monarch butterfly. It was then the surreal feeling of being beyond the pale returned once again to smack my skull like a fucking double sided dildo from hell.
Wob damnit, fellow worker, the stage is set with such quantities of post-ironic suicidal stupidity, how can these characters be so unfazed by the fact that the background has been obliterated? “Oh look dear a clear-cut, will you take my picture with it?”
I’m not bitter, really, I promise. I love my job. Incarnate me on a fascist trash pile planet why don’t you? All I need is a UNION.
Enter stage left: A van pulled into the parking lot. Our committees recognized one another as having that vague rebel alliance aesthetic, which might as well be a neon sign in this late hour. We made our introductions and hashed out the common relation and soon we were on our way to the rebel base.
Yes it’s true, this time we found the revolution in under a day!
This is not to say that this outfit had no security and would let any rambling weirdos into their circle of trust, but some members of our collective are very well connected.
Behold the invisible union, the circuit of renegades, out there: going from front line to front, rotating in and out of active duty. The post-Standing Rock diaspora. It is said “Those who make half a revolution dig their own graves.” Standing Rock was half a revolution. We’re still working on the other half.
Morale was high at camp and organization was tight. The food was delicious like you wouldn’t believe. I’d say we ate like kings but I’m done with monarchist metaphors.
As delicious as the food was the relief that comes only from being on the front lines. It’s really a sanctuary of sanity in a mass extinction event, at least for yours truly.
Here’s a hot take: self-sabotage occurs when you’re not sabotaging the machinery that will end up killing you. Self-destructive behavior is behavior that doesn’t destroy cop cars.
While sitting around the campfire we heard and shared stories from the other revolutionary nodes in this protracted conflict. It was good to be back in the thick of things, fellow worker, when you’re surrounded by defiant comrades, it’s easy to have hope.
From the campfire I could look north and see the most important physical feature of this battlefield: a thing called “the levee.” This was a raised road on an earthen embankment upon which the wall was to be built. Our camp, which included a veteran’s cemetery, was within the 300 yard destruction zone mandated by the fascists.
Every night squadrons of storm troopers would zoom past us full speed on their four-wheelers with their lights off and their night vision goggles on. Every night thermal vision cameras on helicopters would chop through the black sky overhead while the air in the distance broke apart to the sound of machine guns.
War is brewing on the border. Countries don’t just close their borders and then open them again. They close them and then a war starts. Every. Time. While getting oriented for my first night watch I asked the woman in charge of bottom lining volunteer schedules about the machine guns going off in the distance.
“Oh those? Yeah, that happens.”
“Who are they?”
“What, you think we’re the only ones out here?”
“...Yes?”
“No, there’s other groups too, unaffiliated with us.”
“Like who?”
“ANTIFA.”
I can’t make this stuff up.
Tune in next time for another reportback from the cancerous wasteland of the Wall, where Gonzo Wobbly swims in the Rio Grande, makes friends and enemies, and breaks out the power tools.
Original artwork by O. Boy.
This reportback is featured in the Spring 2019 issue of Industrial Worker magazine. Email store@iww.org for info on how to get a copy.
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