May Day is March for Communism



The first day of May is the International Worker’s Day, May Day, or Labor Day, a day promoted by socialists, communists, anarchists, and the labor movement. Even though it is presented on quick search on the web as “an ancient European spring festival,” the date was chosen by the Second International, an organization founded by socialist and communist parties to celebrate the Haymarket event which occurred in Chicago on May 4, 1886, when marchers threw a bomb at police and policemen responded by shooting into the crowd, killing four people.

In 1904 the International Socialist Conference in Amsterdam, the sixth conference of the Second International, “called on all Social Democratic Party organizations and trade unions of all countries to demonstrate energetically on the First of May for the legal establishment of the 8-hour work day, for the class demands of the proletariat, and for universal peace.”

Around the world, May Day is an opportunity for various socialist, communist, and anarchist groups to demonstrate against their governments. In the People’s Republic of China, North Korea, Cuba, and other similar governments, May Day is a huge workforce parade with soldiers and military equipment while the dear leader salutes and inspects them proudly. Nobody is present there by their own choice.

Even the Catholic Church celebrates May Day since 1955, by dedicating it to Saint Joseph the Worker, the patron saint of workers and craftsmen.

During the Cold War, large military parades were assembled in USSR’s Red Square. The Politburo and other top leaders of the Kremlin were standing on specially built stages by Lenin’s tomb.

May Day for me was a day when everybody was forced from their workplace and schools to demonstrate in front of the dear leader or the communist party leadership in each person’s hometown. The parades were elaborate, we had to wear our best communist uniforms, washed, starched and pressed, with berets, red scarves, and all the insignia given to us by the Communist Party. We had to stand in long lines all day, waiting our turn to parade in front of the elaborately built stages, adorned with red flags with the hammer and sickle, the symbols of the industrial worker and the peasant, thousands of fresh flowers, and portraits of the dear leader and his most prominent and trusted communist advisors.

I was a drummer, I am not sure who picked me since I have no musical talent to speak of, but you could not say no to the all-ruling Communist Party. Other marchers had to sing, carry heavy flags all day, or wave smaller flags in a certain pattern, in unison with their cadenced march.

There was a sense of relief that they all escaped their dirty factories for the day and the drudgery of toiling for small wages, while the students rejoiced in escaping the daily indoctrination, homework, tests, and bad grades.

My daddy was luckier, if you consider forced confinement lucky. Because he was such a big mouth opponent of the communist party and of the dictator Ceausescu in particular, daddy was always locked up at his workplace in lieu of attending these forced marches.

At the end of the day, we were all exhausted, having demonstrated in support of the communist party, a party that did not care for the proletariat, a party that used the proletariat to exploit their labor under the guise of taking care of them and their meager needs. Without the obedient and unarmed proletariat who worked for peanuts, these communist leeches could not have existed.

If you are marching on this May Day, in the freest and most prosperous country in the world and protesting imagined and manufactured oppression, you do not really know your history, you are asking for totalitarian communism, not for freedom.

Copyright:  Ileana Johnson 2017

Breakfast Fit for a Queen

Having breakfast in a five star Italian hotel was a unique artistic experience – they left nothing to chance. Tables were decorated with crisp embroidered linens, pressed and starched to perfection, with small arrangements of fresh flowers on every table. Artsy clear vases filled with oranges or lemons added a touch of classy color to the marbled floors.   

Breakfast area fit for a queen
Photo: Ileana Johnson 2016

The antique chairs were decorated with cotton brocade, not a wrinkle or stain in sight; the covers were removed after breakfast. The large bay windows overlooked layered terraces with exotic potted plants, orange and lemon trees, lounge chairs with umbrellas, and verdant gardens. Blooming plants and bushes I’ve never seen before were overwhelming my senses.

Lemons Photo: Ileana Johnson

 

The food was an assortment of breakfast items fit for a queen, artfully displayed by a chef – from yogurt, compote, Italian prunes, peeled fruits, real scrambled eggs, crepes, boiled eggs, panna cotta, chopped vegetables, cereals, rice milk, soy milk, cow’s milk, to an espresso machine that made every type of coffee sophisticated palates might desire; fresh squeezed juices, cheeses, rolls, croissants, and miniature coffee desserts completed the elegant tables. And the hot chocolate was so thick that it looked like molten chocolate lava. I had to add lots of milk to make it more palatable to me. A basket of exotic teas and a silver pitcher filled with hot water invited us to a steaming porcelain cup of tea.

Galleria Photo: Ileana 2016

It was cold outside, in the low fifties, damp and drizzly Milanese weather.  I had a cashmere sweater on layered with a cotton t-shirt but it was not warm enough. It was a good day for museum hopping and window shopping.

I picked a tie in a silk boutique for my hubby.  Another boutique that was moving from the Galleria to another location was offering umbrellas, costume jewelry, richly decorated canes, theater binoculars, ballroom masks, silver and gold pieces with ornate turquoise, and coral beads. Intricate cameos displayed the fine artistry of Sorrento’s shell carvers. I have watched one such carver on a previous trip to Sorrento; he had a deep blister in his palm where he was holding a short stick with the cameo on one end. He was carving it with so much focus that the raw skin in his palm did not seem to matter.

 

Duomo front door Photo: Ileana

We entered the Duomo because I wanted to pray for my family and to light a candle in memory of my Dad. It was even colder inside; the majestic stained glass windows did nothing to increase the warmth of the cold marble floors and walls. There was a service in progress already and signs of Silenzio were posted here and there. Tourists were still quietly milling about, taking photographs.  This time I couldn’t climb the stairs to the roof to admire the flying buttresses and the gargoyles up close. The spectacular panorama of the city that we saw eight years ago would have to wait on this cold and dreary day.

Getting lost was a daily occurrence in Italy; it was part of the exploratory fun. We never knew what we might find along the way. A little old lady walking in high heels but with a cane, asked us if we needed help. You had to admire the Italian ladies’ fashion sense that could not be compromised even when handicapped. Who wants to wear comfortable shoes when they are so unsightly?  We must have looked utterly lost, chattering in English. I explained to her in Italian that we were looking for the metro station. She smiled and told us with a friendly wink that, on May Day every year, all public transportation stops at 7 p.m.  Of course, tourists like us, even though I speak Italian, did not get the memo that on the International Socialist Labor Day, public transportation will grind to a halt and tourists will be stranded miles away from their suburban hotels where prices are more reasonable.

Milan's largest public park Photo: Ileana Johnson 2016

 

We backtracked through the public park, passing ponds with geese, ducks, turtles, and large fish coming to the edge to be hand-fed. A few local kids were playing soccer in the muddy grass even though a sign said clearly, “Stay off the grass.” Italians are obsessed with their city grass, no humans are allowed to pass through, rest, or play on it.

We finally hailed a spotless cab and, for nine euros, it dropped us off by the Duomo again. We were still far away from our hotel. We decided to eat dinner. For 81 euros we had very bland and non-descript pasta at Savini, a great disappointment.  The only thing I enjoyed was the complimentary grissini (bread sticks) that came with the meal and the bottled mineral water. When it came time for gelato, the gelateria had already closed for the night. The town had rolled the streets up. The metal gate entrances to the metro were locked with heavy chains and it resembled a dungeon.

Milan's Duomo at night Photo: Ileana Johnson 2016

 

While in the Piazza del Duomo, bathed in the copious light illuminating the Milanese cathedral, we joined a huge taxi line of at least 100 people, shivering in the damp evening. A few non-taxi Arab drivers, eager to make a profit, approached several people in line and offered to take us to our hotel for 100 euros, about $120. Such an outrageous fee yet there were takers. A few Japanese tourists climbed into unmarked cars, probably so anxious to get out of the cold that they did not care whether it was safe, reasonably priced, or a good idea. We stood in line behind two girls from Boston who were studying in Nice and had taken a weekend trip to Milan. When our turn came, the taxi fare was only 25 euros, four times less than the scalpers had asked. The crabby taxi driver told us very gruffly to get out of the cab, we were too slow for her; she was in a hurry to go back and pick up more stranded tourists.

Part of the taxi line in Milan
Photo: Ileana 2016