Against the Current, No. 207, July/August 2020
"Normal" No More
— The Editors
U.S. Erupts with Mass Protests
— Malik Miah
Producing Knowledge for Justice, Part II
— ATC interviews Rabab Abdulhadi
Lessons from World War II: The Green New Deal & the State
— Martin Hart-Landsberg
White Supremacy Symbols Falling
— Malik Miah
The Brotherhood of Railway Clerks
— Jessica Jopp
- The Pandemic
Authoritarianism & Lockdown Time in Occupied Kashmir and India
— Mona Bhan & Purnima Bose
Ending the Lockdown?
— Mona Bhan and Purnima Bose
The Virus in Latin America
— Marc Becker
Science, Politics and the Pandemic
— Suzi Weissman interviews Dr. Irv Weissman
What We Need to Combat Pandemics
— Clifford D. Conner
Clarence Thomas's America
— Angela D. Dillard
Homeownership and Racial Inequality
— Dianne Feeley
— Lydia Pelot-Hobbs
Half-Life of a Nuclear Disaster
— Ansar Fayyazuddin and M. V. Ramana
Can the Damage Be Repaired?
— Bill Resnick
A Lifetime for Liberation
— Naomi Allen
With their newly sharpened lead
the brotherhood of railway clerks
document summer latitude
sitting at their heavy station desks.
They pinpoint destination times
precisely as a silver watch.
In the bright sun of an afternoon
they use fine instruments to match
their passengers with numbered seats,
compartment green, window, aisle.
The leather satchels and the worldly trunks,
the clicking dinnerware they count,
perhaps some extra cargo, too.
Yet while they gesture over ledgers
and shape the graphite figures
with their capable hands, they are dreaming
of a rail line cut through trees,
the way a head-lamp beam at night
weaves its ignited breath,
the windows lit behind like sparks
extinguished by pursuing dark.
If they had to account for beauty,
the clerks would look up from their desks
and out an open window watch
a live oak fifty yards away,
marvel that everything has been remade
by what its leaves and branches cast
across the station platform.
If they had to document grief,
they’d look in the same direction,
but then their eyes would close
to the voices warm air will fade
(all those lives that have shuttled past!)
and their startled pencils would pause
before the keen sorrow of shade.
July-August 2020, ATC 207