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The Strange History of the Toothpick: Neanderthal Tool, Deadly Weapon, and Luxury Possession

The Strange History of the Toothpick: Neanderthal Tool, Deadly Weapon, and Luxury Possession

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A toothpick – the go-to little tool you select after a meal of corn on the cob, an object you absentmindedly chew on while listening to an unremarkable conversation, the piece of wood you carelessly toss away…this everyday item actually has a rather interesting history behind it.

The toothpick is an unassuming utensil that many surely take for granted today. Yet, the history behind this humble tool stretches far back into history, and perhaps even further into pre-history. The status of the toothpick changed over the ages, and it was even elevated to great heights at certain times and places. When the toothpick began to be mass-produced on an industrial scale during the 19th century, it became a household item.

A toothpick – just an unassuming utensil? ( CC BY SA 2.5 )

The Oldest Toothpicks

At present, physical evidence of prehistoric toothpicks has yet to be uncovered by archaeologist. These tools were most likely made of materials that would have long decomposed, such as wood. Nevertheless, there are signs that such an implement was used extensively by Neanderthals and early Homo sapiens. Researchers studying prehistoric skulls have inferred that our ancestors were using some kind of tool on a regular basis to clean their teeth. This may be seen, for example, in the hominid remains dating to about 1.8 million years ago from the site of Dmanisi in the Republic of Georgia. According to researchers, on the root of a tooth in one jawbone, there were scratch marks reflecting the shape of the toothpick. It has been suggested that the inflammation there was caused by repeated tooth-picking.

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Casting of a Homo Georgicus skull, found at Dmanisi, Georgia.

Assassin’s Tool and Luxury Item

Moving ahead in time, the toothpick is known to have been used by various ancient civilisations. The use of toothpicks in the ancient world is attested to in the literary sources. As an example, according to Diodorus Siculus, an ancient Greek historian, Agathocles, a tyrant of Syracuse, was assassinated as a result of using a toothpick smeared with poison. Moreover, toothpicks from this time period have been preserved in the archaeological record, as they were often made of more durable materials, such as bone, or precious metals.

The choice of material for the production of toothpicks in the ancient world is a reflection of the high status that this instrument enjoyed. This continued into the Medieval period, when carrying a gold or silver toothpick around in a stylish case was one of the many ways that upper class Europeans distinguished themselves from the masses. In fact, the toothpick remained a status symbol all the way into the second half of the 19th century. Louise Marie Thérèse d'Artois, a Duchess of Parma who lived during the 19th century, for example, had, as part of her dowry, a dozen valuable toothpicks.

A luxury toothpick with ruby, pearl, and gold elements. ( The British Museum )

For a Sweet Tooth

Interestingly, toothpicks had already been mass produced since the 16th century, though not on an industrial scale. This innovation has been attributed to the nuns of the Mosteiro de Lorvão in Coimbra, Portugal. Instead of being used for cleaning the teeth, however, the disposable toothpicks produced by the nuns were meant to pick up sticky confectionaries which would otherwise have left a mess on the fingers. Presumably, the toothpicks were also used to clean any residue left in the teeth after the sweets were consumed.

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This area in Portugal eventually became renowned for the high-quality toothpicks they produced, and toothpicks from the region were exported around Europe and the Americas. It was during the 19th century that an American entrepreneur by the name of Charles Forster came across these Portuguese imports whilst working in Brazil.

Toothpicks. ( Pexels)

Making a Massive Toothpick Market

Seeing an opportunity for making money, Forster began working on a machine that would be able to produce toothpicks on an industrial scale. Whilst the entrepreneur’s machine was capable of producing up to a million toothpicks a day, there was a lack of demand in the USA for his product. One of the reasons for this was that Americans were used to producing their own toothpicks, albeit on a small scale, and it did not make sense to them to pay for something they could easily make. Forster, however, did not give up, and eventually succeeded in opening up a market for his toothpicks. Thus, the toothpick changed from a luxury object to a household item that can be easily found in stores around the world today.

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    The Strange History of the Toothpick: Neanderthal Tool, Deadly Weapon, and Luxury Possession - History

    If one has never written an historical book, be it fiction or nonfiction, he/she likely does not quite grasp the idea that having accuracy, even in the smallest of details, is essential.

    In my latest release, Captain Stanwick’s Bride: A Tragic Characters in Classic Lit Series Novel , there is a short scene in an operating tent upon a battlefield. The hero, Captain Whittaker Stanwick is a British army prisoner being held with others in tents outside Fort McHenry, near Baltimore, Maryland.

    The heroine is the daughter of a Scottish born and trained surgeon and a Powhatan Indian princess. Being an uncouth “Injun,” Beatrice assists her father during the surgery. Whit has been recruited also to assist, but his stomach nearly does him in and provide him shame, when a soldier suffering with dysentery vomits all over the ground, right in front of Whit.

    Personally, I understand Whit’s reaction. Even with my own child, I could clean up every mess — and there many such occasions — but I had to find air quickly if my son decided to expel the contents of his stomach into the toilet or on the floor. One thing that always made me feel better was a toothpick, which had been dipped in mint oil, held between my teeth. [As a side note, when I was in junior high school, clove, cinnamon, and mint flavored toothpicks were all the rage. We kept them in our mouths during class until the teachers and administration banned them.] Therefore, I thought to provide Whit a ready solution to his queasy reaction. Unfortunately, in an afterthought, I realized toothpicks were not mass manufactured in America, where the story takes place during the War of 1812, until the 1860s. Even so, the keywords in that sentence were “mass manufactured.” With a twist of the idea and a some research, the scene still worked.

    In truth, early Neanderthals used some sort of tool to pick their teeth. We know this because scientists have identified tooth indentations, assumed to be indicative of picking one’s teeth, among Australian Aborigines, prehistoric Native Americans, and even the earliest finds of the Egyptians. “Mesopotamians used instruments to keep dental crevices clear and artifacts such as toothpicks made out of silver, bronze and various other precious metals that date back to antiquity have also been unearthed. By the Medieval period, carrying a gold or silver toothpick in a fancy case became a way for privileged Europeans to distinguish themselves from commoners.” [A Short History of the Toothpick]

    It is said that Queen Elizabeth I received six gold toothpicks as a gift from an admirer. She was known to show them off at gatherings at the palace. Supposedly, there is a portrait of an elderly Queen Elizabeth wearing a chain around her neck with a gold toothpick in a case, similar to the one pictured below.

    Others made toothpicks from whatever was available. The Romans used bird feathers, chopping off the quill and sharpening the tip. Native Americans carved deer bone to form toothpicks. Eskimos used walrus whiskers. Wooden toothpicks can splinter and cause injuries.

    The American Charles Forster had lived and worked in Brazil. It was there that he noticed the excellent condition of the people in the area. The Brazilians credited the imported toothpicks available from Portugal. Inspired, Forster developed a machine that would mass produce toothpicks. Regrettably, Americans were not buying something they could create for themselves with a piece of wood and a whittling knife.

    Forster was not abandoning the idea therefore, he created an unusual marketing campaign. “Some of the unusual marketing tactics he employed included hiring students to pose as store customers seeking toothpicks and instructing Harvard students to ask for them whenever they dined at restaurants. Soon enough, many local eateries would make sure toothpicks were available for patrons who somehow developed a habit of reaching for them as they’re about to leave.”

    “In 1869, Alphons Krizek, of Philadelphia, received a patent for an ‘improvement in toothpicks,’ which featured a hooked end with spoon-shaped mechanism designed to clean out hollow and sensitive teeth. Other attempted ‘improvements’ include a case for a retractable toothpick and a scented coating meant to freshen one’s breath. Towards the end of the 19 th century, there were literally billions of toothpicks made each year. In 1887, the count got as high as five billion toothpicks, with Forster accounting for more than half of them. And by the end of the century, there was one factory in Maine that was already making that many.”

    Other Sources:

    Enjoy this excerpt from Chapter Three of Captain Stanwick’s Bride .

    When he entered the area set aside for the surgical services, Miss Spurlock was separating the injured based on the degree of seriousness of the injuries. Whit had witnessed more than one field hospital and the horrors the surgeons faced, often in a feeble attempt to save the wounded.

    She motioned him deeper into the large tented area. Stepping over the legs of a man who had collapsed from exhaustion or injury, Whit was uncertain of which, he turned to haul the fellow up onto a cot. A sourness clung to the soldier, the distinct smell of a man suffering from dysentery.

    Whit found himself holding his breath while he assisted in removing the man’s boots. “Someone will be with you soon. Can you tell me if you have an injury?”

    The man shook his head in the negative, rolled to his side, and retched. Whit quickly turned away, his stomach churning violently as he heard the man dump the contents of his stomach on the ground. He slapped his hand across his mouth to prevent his own humiliation.

    “Are you well, Captain?” Miss Spurlock asked softly. “Should we discover another to assist my father? There is no shame. This work is not for everyone.”

    Whit fought hard to swallow a quick intake of fresh air, but the fetid smell was too strong. He rasped, “I can assist with the blood, seen more than my share of blood, but not—”

    “I understand.” She turned his shoulders toward where her father examined a man’s bloody wound. “Make yourself useful to my father.”

    He forced the lead in his feet into movement, finally claiming a bit of air not laced with miasmic odors, but rather with the metallic scent of blood, something too familiar to every soldier.

    “Good to have your strong arm, Captain,” Spurlock said as Whit approached. He had no doubt the surgeon had observed his reaction to the soldier’s vomiting. “I have presented the sergeant, here, laudanum, but, if I can claim any chance to save it, I cannot wait until it completely takes affect to start on the man’s hand. I ask you hold him still so I may begin.”

    “Just position me where you think best.”

    Spurlock maneuvered Whit to lie across the man’s chest and down on the shoulder to hold the arm in place. The injured man’s shoulders flexed, but quickly slumped back against the wood table, covered with a sheet. Whit was beginning to understand that Spurlock was one who believed in cleanliness.

    “Water, Beatrice,” Spurlock ordered as he unwrapped a cloth holding several sharp instruments.

    In less than a minute, Miss Spurlock brought over a bowl of water, a bar of soap, and a clean rag. She positioned a small metal tray on the table’s edge and filled it with some sort of alcohol. Then she circled to where Whit laid across the injured man. “Open your mouth,” she ordered.

    “Open your mouth,” she repeated. When he did as she asked, she popped a toothpick in between his teeth. “Bite down.” She tapped his cheek, and he closed his lips around the toothpick, using his tongue to position it in the corner of his mouth. Before he could ask, she explained. “Made of wood, not like the deer bone ones my Indian relations would use, and dipped in oil of mint. The scent shall assist in disguising the more disgusting odors, and the taste will assist in settling your stomach.” She wicked at him. “Just do not permit the sergeant to punch you in the mouth while you hold him down. I understand passing a toothpick in your stool can be quite painful.”

    A chuckle escaped his lips as she walked away. “Your daughter possesses an unusual sense of humor, sir.”

    Spurlock glanced to where Miss Spurlock had returned to the other side of the tent. “My Beatrice be of her mother’s temperament.” The doctor sighed in what appeared to be melancholy. “There are so many nuisances of a woman’s nature a man must learn to appreciate. I miss Elizabeth’s sharp wit.” Spurlock smiled knowingly. “Among many of her other finer qualities. You are married, Stanwick. Surely you know what I mean.”

    Whit fought the blush of embarrassment rushing up his chest to his cheeks. “I am no longer married. Mrs. Stanwick passed some sixteen months prior.” He nodded to the faint line where his ring had been, surprised how quickly both the line and his memories of Ruth had faded. “I traded my wedding ring for blankets and food for my men on our journey from Buffalo.”

    “Then President Madison’s declaration of war precipitated your arrival in America,” Spurlock observed as he arranged his tools upon the cloth before him.

    “I had been presented leave from my time upon the Continent, for I had been with Wellington for some two years upon the Spanish Peninsula. I had been in England, perhaps, two months, when I received orders to the Canadian front. At the time, I did not expect to be doing more than attempting to keep the Indian fears over American encroachment at a minimum. I was not expecting how deep the resentment between the competing parties was until I arrived in Upper Canada.”

    Ready to begin the operation, Spurlock, lost in his duties, simply presented Whit a curt nod: Whit was uncertain the man had heard anything of his response, but it did not matter. Whit looked on as Spurlock unwrapped the sergeant’s hand to expose the torn flesh hanging on the white bone, which was covered in dried blood and mud. Spurlock grumbled, “I wish the army would ban muskets. Damn gun explodes nearly as often as it fires.”

    Whit glanced to the wound while he sucked on the mint toothpick. He could learn to enjoy the flavor. “Can you save the fingers?”

    “Probably not the small one or the ring finger, but the rest.” Spurlock began to clean away the blood and dirt from the wound. “I must remove the bone fragments. Keep him still. This can be time consuming, but necessary. If I do not remove all the fragments, infection will set in.”

    “I have nothing on my social calendar,” Whit said with a grin.

    “Excellent news,” Spurlock murmured with an answering smile. “You do realize the man beneath you is an American soldier.”

    Friday, November 20, 2015

    Protests at the University of Alabama are not symbolic racism resides in high places on campus, with "N word" used to describe Crimson Tide football players

    UA students Kaylin Lee, Maiya Gaspard, and Alexis
    Moody gather for a protest at Rose Hall
    The University of Alabama is one of several campuses around the country where students and faculty are protesting over race-based issues, in solidarity with students who recently forced leadership changes at the University of Missouri.

    In fact, a student-faculty group called "We Are Done" staged a protest yesterday morning near Foster Auditorium on the UA campus. The group has issued a list of 10 demands that it claims will foster an environment of diversity and tolerance at UA.

    We suspect the protests at several campuses are largely symbolic. But that should not be the case at the University of Alabama, where we have shown racism exists in very high places--and it's even directed at the powerhouse and supposedly beloved Crimson Tide football team.

    Some students already have called attention to the ugliness that rests beneath the surface at UA. Several of them recently released a video about their encounters with racism on the Tuscaloosa campus. (See video at the end of this post.)

    How high does racist rhetoric go at UA? As high as the private box of Paul Bryant Jr., a trustee emeritus and perhaps the Crimson Tide's most powerful booster.

    J.T. Smallwood, the tax collector for Jefferson County, was in Bryant's box at an Alabama football game when he looked down over the enormous crowd and was heard to say the following:

    Language doesn't get much more vile and racist than that. When you consider that it was directed at football players, including those wearing crimson jerseys . . . well, it looks like "We Are Done" has a lot of work to do in Tuscaloosa.

    Ironically, it was a threatened boycott from football players that apparently led Missouri's president and chancellor to announce their resignations after a series of race-based incidents on campus. Alabama, ranked No. 2 in the country, has a much better football team than Missouri. But that apparently has not earned much respect for Crimson Tide players among certain high-level fans and administrators.

    Jefferson County tax collector
    J.T. Smallwood
    (from YouTube)
    What was yesterday's protest like? Here is an account from Nick Privatera in The Crimson White student newspaper:

    [Yesterday] morning, students with the We Are Done organization gathered in protest on campus at the Malone Hood Plaza and then marched to the steps of Gorgas library, where several students spoke at length and the protestors chanted for change.

    The demonstration was held to promote changes on the issues of race, gender, sexuality, religion and socioeconomic status. We Are Done is also calling for the administration and the Board of Trustees to acknowledge the existence of the Machine and make strides to bring it above ground.

    Some of the main goals for the group is to remove names of white supremacists and Confederate generals from University property, or at least erect markers denoting the racist history of the buildings’ namesakes.

    Who is behind "We Are Done" at UA? The answer is not clear, but a recent article by Alyx Chandler in The Crimson White provides insight. From Chandler's article:

    The group of concerned students, none representing specific organizations, collectively wrote a letter titled “We only have one demand” and placed it in University president Stuart Bell's secretary's possession that morning before classes started. The secretary confirmed that she received the letter.

    “We want the administration to actually acknowledge that racism exists on campus," said Maiya Gaspard, a sophomore majoring in general health studies and one of the students standing in front of Rose. "We want for people to call it what it is, so we can start change."

    The UA students stood for two reasons.

    One was as concerned students for the University of Missouri, where the University president stepped down on Monday after controversies in which minority students demanded action from school leaders over what student activists called a climate of racism for the predominately white campus. . . .

    “It's [Mizzou] creating a bridge,” said Kaylyn Lee, a senior majoring in political and communications studies.

    The second reason dealt with students' grievances about administration involvement and acknowledgement on the UA campus about diversity and racism. The letter addressed the need for a diversity officer, a cultural diversity space and an updated version of the University's 2008 strategic diversity plan.

    It should not be hard for university administrators to acknowledge that racism exists on campus. It easily can be found in the luxury box of perhaps the university's best known official. If it can be found there--directed toward Crimson Tide football players--God only knows where else it is present.

    Native American Anarchists (1965)

    Native American Anarchists (1965)
    Book Reviews by D’Arcy McNickle

    THE LOST UNIVERSE. By Gene Weltfish. Basic Books. 506 pp.
    THE LONG DEATH: The Last Days of the Plains Indians. By Ralph K.
    Andrist, The Macmillian Co. 371 pp.

    As to the question of posting sentinels to guard against surprise attacks, Dr. Weltfish suggestively writes that they were a well-disciplined people under many trying circumstances. And yet they had none of the power mechanisms that we consider essential to a well-ordered life. No orders were ever issued, No assignments for work were ever made. . . . The only instigator of action was the consenting person. Even in so critical an area of public safety as the posting of camp guards, the will of the individual governed. According to Dr. Weltfish, a young man would say, I think I’ll go up to the sentry post early tomorrow morning. A friend would respond, I think I’ll do that too. In due course as many men as were needed would have volunteered. It is conceivable, under such a system of individual consent, that there would be temporary lapses, moments when the guard was down. Any democratic society based on the consent of the governed is vulnerable to sneak attack from a militant neighbor.

    The Pawnee system of individual consent brings us to one of the central themes of the book, for Dr. Weltfish is manifestly interested in the meaning of democracy, as practiced by this tribe, which lived in the Missouri River basin for more than 600 years-a longer time perspective than archaeologists of the area formerly reckoned with. She asked repeatedly how the people managed to live together without centralized authority and could find no instance in which a political leader, a priest, or even a senior member of a household presumed, to give orders at large or to another individual. Even formal discussion for the purpose of arriving at a consensus was not a general procedure. When asked how plans were worked out, who discussed them, the informant would answer, They didn’t discuss it at all. They don’t talk about it. It goes along just as it happens to work out.

    Social forms, she decided, were carried within the consciousness of the people, not by others who were in a position to make demands. For such a system to operate, as this one did for a longer period than most modern democracies have existed: participation had to be universal, the autonomy of the individual had to ,be inviolable, and the individual had to be internally disciplined and responsible, not for himself alone, but for the entire group within which he functioned.

    What brought down the Pawnees was not a failure in the society but diseases against which they had no immunity competition with the Sioux, intensified by a shrinking economic base and finally by the total destruction of that base, the buffalo herds.
    And behind all of this was the incoming white man, who practiced a democracy in which every man wants to be king.

    The development of the individual within his society is yet another part of the question raised by Pawnee democracy, which Dr. Weltfish explores. One thing is clear, she writes, no one is caught within the social order . . . each person stands as his own person. The child was born into a community, but was never swallowed up by it. From the beginning he was made to feel that his identity was with the infinite cosmos, as the roundhouse within which he lived served as a central observation post from which the movements of the planets and the stars were calculated for ceremonial purposes.

    Affection came from many sources, in varying degrees of kinship intimacy, but affection never became a smothering overprotection. The special concern of his mother did not mean that he was so closely embedded with her emotionally that he was not able to move about. Move about he did, to the homes of his uncles, his halfbrothers, his grandparents, always certain of food and warmth, and there was no reason why he should hesitate to set out alone and explore the wide world, even though years should pass before he returned. The world, indeed, was his home. Dr. Weltfish contends that it is not easy for us to perceive the wide gap in kind between Pawnee society and our own, and yet in the face of all the terrible events of the past and the pressure to destroy his personality, surely it must mean something that the American Indian has maintained his identity among us.

    If the meaning of Pawnee identity eludes us at this moment in time, the occasion may yet arise when we find ourselves retracing the social development of these once despised denizens of the Plains for the threads of continuity which successfully carried them beyond disaster.

    One such thread certainly was the individual-not the social form or the institution, which may stifle individual growth and in any case is a temporal creation of fallible men. The Pawnees were fortunate in that they were born into a fluid society. The individual personality was not trimmed down to fit the kin structure, but the structure was used to realize the individual personality. The Pawnee social structure was written into no statute books, nor did it have the status of doctrine, and there was no chain of command to enforce it.

    With freedom to move and to grow, the individual carried out his commitment to the group, not because of coercive sanctions or internalized guilt, but because in his own searching for goals he was realizing the goals ‘of the group. His aspiration [was] not to surpass some one else, but to go beyond his own past achievements. And therefore, his aspirations, even his personal name, ,were secrets which he shared discreetly, if ever. To speak publicly of such matters was to invite competition and conflict.

    In such a society, the individual was the keystone. This, the Pawnee, as well as other Indians, understood. Which perhaps is the ultimate explanation of why the Indian people have kept their identity through all adversity. After all forms had crumbled, the man stood revealed.

    On that final point, having reminded us that the problems of our bomb-ridden, automated age call for drastic revisions in our age-old motivations, Dr. Weltfish concludes that it is within the individual that the universe will be regained. This, also, the Pawnees knew.

    Ed. Note: D’Arcy McNickle, a member of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes of Montana, is director of American Indian Development

    From The Goals of the Group a review in The Nation by D’Arcy McNickle 9/25/65

    Posted by: skip
    Views: 15190

    A Yippie Manifesto

    A Yippie Manifesto
    by Jerry Rubin

    This is a Viet Cong flag on my back. During the recent hearings of the House Un-American Activities Committee in Washington, a friend and I are walking down the street en route to Congress – he’s wearing an American flag and I’m wearing this VC flag.

    The cops mass, and boom! I am going to be arrested for treason, for supporting the enemy.

    And who do the cops grab and throw in the paddy wagon?

    My friend with the American flag.

    And I’m left all alone in the VC flag.

    “What kind of a country is this?” I shout at the cops. “YOU COMMUNISTS!”

    Everything is cool en route to Canada until the border. An official motions me into a small room and pulls out a five-page questionnaire.

    “Do you use drugs?” he asks quite seriously.

    “Coca Cola is more dangerous for you than marijuana,” I say. “Fucks up your body, and it’s addictive.”

    “Have you ever advocated the overthrow of the Canadian government?” he asks.

    “Not until I get into Canada.”

    Have you ever been arrested for inciting to riot?”

    I reply no, and it is true. In August I was arrested in Chicago for something similar, “solicitation to mob action,” a violation of a sex statute.

    Finally I ask the border official to drop out. “Man, your job is irrelevant,” I say. “The Canadian-American border does not exist. There are no such things as borders. The border exists only in your head.

    “No state has the right to ask me these questions. The answers are mine. Next thing I know you guys will be tapping my brain!”

    I try to get the cat to take off his uniform right there. But he refuses, saying, “I’ve got a job to do and a family to support.”

    So goes the cancer of the Western World: everyone just doing his “Job.” Nobody learned the lesson of Eichmann. Everyone still points the finger elsewhere.

    America and the West suffer from a great spiritual crisis. And so the yippies are a revolutionary religious movement.

    We do not advocate political solutions that you can vote for. You are never going to be able to vote for the revolution. Get that hope out of your mind.

    And you are not going to be able to buy the revolution in a supermarket, in the tradition of our consumer society. The revolution is not a can of goods.

    Revolution only comes through personal transformation: finding God and changing your life. Then millions of converts will create a massive social upheaval.

    The religion of the yippies is: “RISE UP AND ABANDON THE CREEPING MEATBALL!”

    That means anything you want it to mean. Which is why it is so powerful a revolutionary slogan. The best picket sign I ever saw was blank. Next best was: “We Protest__________!”

    Slogans like “Get out of Vietnam” are informative, but they do not create myths. They don’t ask you to do anything but carry them.

    Political demonstrations should make people dream and fantasize. A religious-political movement is concerned with people’s souls, with the creation of a magic world which we make real.

    When the national media first heard our slogan, they reported that the “creeping meatball” was Lyndon Johnson. Which was weird and unfair, because we liked Lyndon Johnson.

    We cried when LBJ dropped out. “LBJ, you took us too literally! We didn’t mean YOU should drop out! Where would WE be if it weren’t for you, LBJ?”

    Is there any kid in America, or anywhere in the world, who wants to be like LBJ when he grows up?

    As a society falls apart, its children reject their parents. The elders offer us Johnsons, Agnews, and Nixons, dead symbols of a dying past.

    The war between THEM and US will be decided by the seven-year-olds.

    We offer: sex, drugs, rebellion, heroism, brotherhood.

    They offer: responsibility, fear, Puritanism, repression.

    Dig the movie Wild in the Streets! A teenage rock-and-roll singer campaigns for a Bobby Kennedy-type politician.

    Suddenly he realizes: “We’re all young! Let’s run the country ourselves!”

    “Lower the voting age to 14!”

    They put LSD in the water fountains of Congress and the Congressmen have a beautiful trip. Congress votes to lower the voting age to 14.

    The rock-and-roll singer is elected President, but the CIA and military refuse to recognize the vote. Thousands of long-hairs storm the White House, and six die in the siege. Finally the kids take power, and they put all people over 30 into camps and given them LSD every day. (Some movies are even stranger than OUR fantasies.)

    “Don’t trust anyone over 30!” say the yippies – a much-quoted warning.

    We are born twice. My first birth was in 1938, but I was reborn in Berkeley in 1964 in the Free Speech movement.

    When we say “Don’t trust anyone over 30,” we’re talking about the second birth. I got 26 more years.

    When people 40 years old come up to me and say, “Well, I guess I can’t be part of your movement,” I say, “What do you mean? You could have been born yesterday. Age exists in your head.”

    Bertrand Russell is our leader. He’s 90 years old.


    Everybody in this society is a policeman. We all police ourselves. When we free ourselves, the real cops take over.

    I don’t smoke pot in public often, although I love to. I don’t want to be arrested: that’s the only reason.

    We do not own our own bodies.

    We fight to regain our bodies…to make love in the parks, say “fuck” on television, do what we want to do whenever we want to do it.

    Prohibitions should be prohibited.

    Rules are made to be broken.

    The yippies say: “PROPERTY IS THEFT.’

    What America got, she stole.

    How was this country built? By the forced labor of slaves. America owes black people billions in compensation.

    “Capitalism” is just a polite schoolbook way of saying: “Stealing.”

    Who deserves what they get in America? Do the Rockefellers deserve their wealth? HELL NO!

    America says that people work only for money. But check it out: those who don’t have money work the hardest, and those who have money take very long lunch hours.

    When I was born I had food on my table and a roof over my head. Most babies born in the world face hunger and cold. What is the difference between them and me?

    Every well-off white American better ask himself that question or he will never understand why people hate America.

    The enemy is this dollar bill right here in my hand.

    Now if I get a match, I’ll show you what I think of it.

    This burning gets some political radicals very uptight. I don’t know exactly why. They burn a lot of money putting out leaflets nobody reads.

    I think it is more important today to burn a dollar bill than it is to burn a draft card.

    “Humm, pretty resilient. Hard to burn. Anybody got a lighter?”

    We go to the New York Stock Exchange, about 20 of us, our pockets stuffed with dollar bills. We want to throw real dollars down at all those people on the floor playing monopoly games with numbers.

    An official stops us at the door and says, “You can’t come in. You are hippies and you are coming to demonstrate.”

    With TV cameras flying away, we reply: “Hippies? Demonstrate? We’re Jews. And we’re coming to see the stock market.”

    Well, that gets the guy uptight, and he lets us in. We get to the top, and the dollars start raining down on the floor below.

    These guys deal in millions of dollars as a game, never connecting it to people starving. Have they ever seen a real dollar bill?

    This is what it is all about, you sonavabitches!!”

    Look at them: wild animals chasing and fighting each other over dollar bills thrown by the hippies!

    And then someone calls the cops . The cops are a necessary part of any demonstration always include a role for the cops. Cops legitimize demonstrations.

    It is noon. Wall Street Businessmen with briefcases and suits and ties. Money freaks going to lunch. Important business deals. Time. Appointments.

    And there we are in the middle of it, burning five-dollar bills. Burning their world. Burning their Christ.

    “Don’t, Don’t!” some scream, grasping for the sacred paper. Several near fist-fights break out.

    Weeks later The New York Times publishes a short item revealing that the New York Stock Exchange is installing a bullet-proof glass window between the visitor’s platform and the floor, so that “nobody can shot a stockbroker.”

    In Chicago, 5,000 yuppies come, armed only with our skin. The cops bring tanks, dogs, guns, gas, long-range rifles, missiles. Is this South Vietnam or Chicago? America always overreacts.

    The American economy is doomed to collapse because it has no soul. Its stability is war and preparation for war. Consumer products are built to break, and advertising brainwashes us to consume new ones.

    The rich feel guilty. The poor are taught to hate themselves. The guilty and the wretched are on a collision course.

    If the men who control the technology used it for human needs and not profit and murder, every human being on the planet could be free from starvation. Machines could do most of the world: People would be free to do what they want.

    We should be very realistic and demand the impossible. Food, housing, clothing, medicine, and color TV free for all!!

    People would work because of love, creativity, and brotherhood. A new economic structure would produce a new man.

    That new structure will be created by new men.

    American society, because of its Western-Christian-Capitalist bag, is organized on the fundamental premise that man is bad, society evil, and that: People must be motivated and forced by external reward and punishment.

    We are a new generation, species, race. We are bred on affluence, turned on by drugs, at home in our bodies, and excited by the future and its possibilities.

    Everything for us is an experience, done for love or not done at all.

    We live off the fat of society. Our fathers worked all-year round for a two-week vacation. Our entire life is a vacation.

    Every moment, every day we decide what we are going to do.

    We do not groove with Christianity, the idea that people go to heaven after they are dead. We want HEAVEN NOW!

    We do not believe in studying to obtain degrees in school. Degrees and grades are like money and credit, good only for burning.

    There is a war going on in the Western world: a war of genocide by the old against the young.

    The economy is closed. It does not need us. Everything is built.

    So the purpose of universities is: to get us off the streets. Schools are baby-sitting agencies.

    The purpose of the Vietnam War is: to get rid of blacks. They are a nuisance. America got the work she needed out of blacks, but now she has no use for them.

    It is a psychological war. The old say, “We want you to die for us.” The old send the young to die for the old.

    Our response? Draft-card burning and draft dodging! We won’t die for you.

    Young whites are dropping out of white society. We are getting our heads straight, creating new identities. We’re dropping out of middle-class institutions, leaving their schools, running away from their homes, and forming our own communities.

    We are becoming the new niggers.

    I’m getting on a plane en route to Washington. An airline official comes up to me and says, “You can’t go on this airplane.”

    That’s what they used to say about black people, remember? They don’t say that about black people anymore. They’d get punched in their fucking mouths.

    Our long hair communicates disrespect to America. A racist, short-hair society gets freaked by long hair. It blinds people. In Vietnam, America bombs the Vietnamese, but cannot see them because they are brown.

    Long-hair is vital to us because it enables us to recognize each other. We have white skin like our oppressors. Long hair ties us together into a visible counter-community.

    A car drives down the street, parents in front, and a 15-year-old longhair kid in back. The kid gives me the “V” sign! That’s the kind of communication taking place.

    Within our community we have the seeds of a new society. We have our own communications network, the underground press. We have the beginnings of a new family structure in communes. We have our own stimulants.

    When the cops broke into my home on the Lower East Side to arrest me for possession of pot, it was like American soldiers invading a Vietnamese village. They experienced cultural shock.

    Fidel Castro was on the wall. They couldn’t believe it! Beads! They played with my beads for 20 minutes.

    When the cops kidnapped me in Chicago, they interviewed me as if I had just landed from Mars.

    “Do you talk directly with the Viet Cong?”

    The two generations cannot communicate with one another because of our different historical experiences.

    Our parents suffered through the Depression and World War II. We experience the consumer economy and the U.S.A. as a military bully in Vietnam.

    From 1964 to 1968 the movement has been involved in the destruction of the old symbols of America. Through our actions we have redefined those symbols for the youth.

    Kids growing up today expect school to be a place to demonstrate, sit-in, fight authority, and maybe get arrested.

    Demonstrations become the initiation rites, rituals, and social celebrations of a new generation.

    Remember the Pentagon, center of the military ego? We urinated on it. Thousands of stone freaks stormed the place, carrying Che’s picture and stuffing flowers in the rifles of the 82nd Airborne.

    Remember the Democratic Convention? Who, after Chicago, can read schoolbook descriptions of national political conventions with a straight face anymore? The farce within the convention became clear because of the war between the yippies and the cops in the streets.

    We are calling the bluff on myths of America. Once the myth is exposed, the structure behind it crumbles like sand. Chaos results. People must create new realities.

    In the process we create new myths, and these new myths forecast the future.

    In America in 1969 old myths can be destroyed overnight, and new ones created overnight because of the power of television. By making communications instantaneous, television telescopes the rev solution by centuries. What might have taken 100 years will now take 20. What used to happen in 10 years now happens in two. In a dying society, television becomes a revolutionary instrument.

    For her own protection, the government is soon going to have to suppress freedom of the press and take direct control over what goes on television, especially the news.

    TV has dramatized the longhair drop-out movement so well that virtually every young kid in the country wants to grow up and be a demonstrator.

    What do you want to be when you grow up? A fireman? A cop? A professor?

    “I want to grow up and make history.”

    Young kids watch TV’s thrill-packed coverage of demonstrations – including the violence and excitement – and dream about being in them. They look like fun.

    Mayor Daley put out this television film about Chicago. It had cops beating up young longhairs. In one scene, the cops threw a tear-gas canister into the crowd, and one demonstrator picked it up and heaved it right back.

    Who do you think every kid in the country identified with?

    Then the announcer said the chiller: “These demonstrations are Communist led!…”

    Communism? Who the hell knows from Communism? We never lived thro8ugh Stalin. We read about it, but it doesn’t affect us emotionally. Our emotional reaction to Communism is Fidel marching into Havana in 1959.

    There is NO WORD that the Man has to turn off your youth, no scare word.

    Damn right, we’re for anarchy! This country is fucking over-organized anyway. “DON’T DO THIS! DON”T DO THAT, Don’t!”

    Growing up in America is learning what NOT to do.


    Our battlegrounds are the campuses of America. White middle-class youth are strategically located in the high schools and colleges of this country. They are our power bases.

    If one day 100 campuses were closed in a nationally coordinated rebellion, we could force the President of the United States to sue for peace at the conference table.

    As long as we are in school we are prisoners. Schools are voluntary jails. We must liberate ourselves.

    Dig the geography of a university. You can always tell what the rulers have up their sleeves when you check out the physical environment they create. The buildings tell you how to behave. Then there is less need for burdensome rules and cops. They designed classrooms so that students sit in rows, one after the other, hierarchically facing the professor who stands up front talking to all of them.

    “Don’t take off your clothes.

    “Let the mind rule the body.

    “Let the needs of the classroom rule the mind.

    Classrooms are totalitarian environments. The main purpose of school and education in America is to force you to accept and love authority, and to distrust your own spontaneity and emot8ons.

    How can you grow in such an over-structured environment? You can’t. Schools aren’t for learning.

    Classrooms should be organized in circles, with the professor one part of the circle. A circle is a democratic environment.

    Try breaking up the environment. Scream “Fuck” in the middle of your prof’s lecture. ‘

    So we organized a University of the Flesh. Four of us go into a classroom. We sit in the middle of the class. The lecture is on “Thinking.”

    We take off our shirts, smoke joints and start French kissing. A lot of students get nervous. This goes on for 10-15 minutes, and the professor goes on with his lecture like nothing is happening.

    Finally a girl says, “The people there are causing a distraction, and could they either put their shirts back on or could they please leave.”

    And the prof says, “Well, I agree with that. I think that if you’re not here to hear what I’m saying…”

    We shout: “You can’t separate thinking from loving! We are hard in thought!!”

    And the prof says, “Well, in my classroom I give the lessons.”

    Scratch a professor deep and you find a cop!

    Fucking milquetoast! Didn’t have the guts to throw us out, but in his classroom HE GIVES the lesson. So he sends his teaching assistant to get the cops, and we split.

    The mind is programmed. Get in there and break that bloody program!

    Can you imagine what a feeling a professor has standing in front of a class and looking at a room full of bright faces taking down every word he says, raising their hands and asking questions? It really makes someone think he is God. And to top it off, he has the power to reward and punish you, to decide whether or not you are fit to advance in the academic rat race.

    Is this environment the right one for teacher and student?

    Socrates is turning in his grave.

    I was telling a professor of philosophy at Berkeley that many of his students were wiser men than he, even en though he may have read more books and memorized more theories.

    He replied, “Well, I must take the lead in the transfer of knowledge.”

    Transfer of knowledge! What is knowledge?

    How to Legalize Marijuana.

    How to Free People from Jail.

    How to Organize Against the CIA.

    When a professor takes off his suit and tie, and joins us in the streets, then I say, “Hay man, what’s your first name?” You’re my brother. Let’s go. We’re together.”

    I don’t dig the “professor” bullshit. I am more interested in a 15-year-old stoned dope freak living on street corners than I am in a Ph.D.

    There is anti-intellectualism in America because professors have created an artificial environment. That is why the average working guy does not respect professors.

    The university is a protective and plastic scene, shielding people from the reality of life, the reality of suffering, of ecstasy, of struggle. The university converts the agony of life into the securi6ty of words and books.

    You can’t learn anything in school. Spend one hour in a jail or a courtroom and you will learn more than in five years spent in a university.

    All I learned in school was how to beat the system, how to fake answers. But there are no answers. There are only more questions. Life is a long journey of questions, answered thro8ugh the challenge of living. You would never know that, living in a university ruled by the “right” answers to the wrong questions.

    Graffiti in school bathrooms tells you more about what’s on people’s minds than all the books in the library.

    We must liberate ourselves. I dropped out. The shit got up to my neck and I stopped eating. I said: NO. NO. NO!! I’m dropping out.

    People at Columbia found out what it felt like to learn when they seized buildings and lived in communes for days.

    We have to redesign the environment and remake human relationships. But if you try it, you will be kicked out.

    You know what professors and deans will say? “Of you don’t like it here, why don’t you go back to Russia!”

    A lot is demanded of white, middle-class youth in 1969. The whole thing about technological and bureaucratic society is that it is not made for heroes. We must become heroes.

    The young kids living in the streets as new niggers are the pioneers of tomorrow, living dangerously and existentially.

    The yippies went to Chicago to have our counter-festival, a “Festival of Life” in the parks of Chicago, as a human contrast to the “Convention of Death” of the Democrats.

    I get a phone call on Christmas Day, 1967 from Marvin Garson, the editor of the San Francisco Express-Times, and he says, “Hay, it looks like the Peace and Freedom Party is not going to get on the ballot.”

    I say, “I don’t care. I’m not interested in electoral politics anyway.”

    And he says, “Let’s run a pig for President.”

    An arrow shoots through my brain. Yeah! A pig, with buttons, posters, bumper stickers.

    “America, why take half a hog, when you can have the whole hog.”

    At the Democratic convention, the pigs nominate the President and he eats the people.

    At the yippie convention, we nominate our pig and after he makes his nominating speech, we earth him. The contrast is clear: should the President earth the people or the people earth the President?

    Well, we didn’t kill our pig. If there is one issue that could split the yippies, it is the issue of vegetarianism. A lot of yippies don’t believe in killing and eating animals, so I had to be less militant on that point.

    We bring Pigasus to Chicago, and he is arrested in Civic Center. The cops grab him. They grab seven of us, and they throw us in the paddy wagon with Pigasus.

    The thing about running a pig for President is that it cuts through the shits. People’s minds are full of things like, “You may elect a greater evil.” We must break through their logic. Once we get caught in their logic, we’re trapped in it.

    Just freak it all out and proclaim: “This country is run on the principles of garbage. The Democratic and Republican parties have nominated a pig. So have we. We’re honest about it.”

    In Chicago, Pigasus was a hell of a lot more effective than all those lackeys running around getting votes for the politicians. It turned out that the pig was more relevant to the current American political scene than Senator Eugene McCarthy. I never thought McCarthy could reform the Democratic Party. Hell, McCarthy barely got into the convention himself. He had to have a ticket. That’s how controlled the damn thing was. Finally, we forced McCarthy out into the streets with the people.

    The election was not fair because every time we brought eh pigs out to give a campaign speech, they arrested him. It happened in Chicago, in New York, in San Francisco, even in London.

    The yippies asked that the presidential elections be cancelled until the rules of the game were changed. We said that everyone in the role should both in American elections because America controls the world.

    Free elections are elections in which the people who vote are the people affected by the results. The Vietnamese have more right to vote in the American elections than some 80-year-old grandmother in Omaha. They’re being bombed by America! They should have at least some choice about it, how, and by whom they are going to be bombed.

    I have nothing in particular against 80-year-old grandmothers, but I am in favor of lowering the voting age to 12 or 14 years. And I’m not sure whether people over 50 should vote.

    It is the young kids who are going to live in this world in the next 50 years. They should choose what they want for themselves.

    Most people over 50 don’t think about the potentialities of the future: they are preoccupied with justifying their past.

    The only people who can choose change without suffering blows to their egos are the young, and change is the rhythm of the universe.

    Many older people are constantly warning: “The right wing will get you.” “George Wallace will get your momma.”

    I am so scared of George Wallace that I wore his fucking campaign button. I went to his campaign rally – all old ladies.

    There are six Nazis who come with black gloves and mouthpieces, looking for a fight. And two fights break out. Two guys with long hair beat the shit out of them.

    I am not afraid of the right wing because the right wing does not have the youth behind it.

    “Straight” people get very freaked by Wallace. “Freaks” know the best way to fuck Wallace up. We support him.

    At Wallace’s rally in the Cow Palace in Sand Francisco, we come with signs saying “CUT THEIR HAIR1” “SEND THEM BACK TO AFRICA!” “BOMB THE VIETNAMESE BACK TO THE STONE AGE!”

    When we arrive there is a picket line going on in front of the rally. I recognize it is the Communist Party picketing.

    I walk up to my friend Bettina Aptheker and say, “Bettina, you’re legitimizing him. You’re legitimizing him by picketing. Instead, support him, kiss him. When he says the next hippie in front of his car will be the last hippie, cheer! Loudly!”

    We have about two hundred people there, and we are the loudest people at the rally. Every five seconds we are jumping up and swearing. “Heil! Hitler! Heil! Hitler!”

    Wallace is a sick man. America is the loony bin. The only way to cure her is through theatrical shock. Wallace is necessary because he brings to the surface the racism and hate that is deep within the country.

    The hippie Fugs spearheaded the anti-war movement of the past five years by touring theaters and dance halls shouting into a microphone: “Kill, Kill, Kill for Peace! Kill, Kill, I’ll for Peace!”

    Wallace says aloud what most people say privately. He exposes the beast within liberal America. He embarrasses the liberal who says in one breath, “Oh, I like Negroes,” and then in another breath, “We must eliminate crime in the streets.”

    Remember what Huey Long said: “When fascism comes to America, it will come as Americanism.”

    Wallace may be the best thing for those of us who are fighting him. You can only fight a disease after you recognize the diagnose it. America does not suffer from a cold: she has cancer.

    The liberals who run this country agree with Wallace more than they disagree with him. George tells tales out of school. The liberals are going to have to shut that honest motherfucker up.

    Do you dig that most cops support Wallace? Cops – the people who make and enforce the law in the streets! Wallace speaks FOR them.

    Isn’t that scary? Can’t you see why blacks are getting guns and organizing into small self-defense units? Wouldn’t you, if you were in their situation? Shouldn’t you be?

    Make America see her vampire face in the mirror. Destroy that gap between public talk and private behavior. Only when people see what’s happening can they hear our screams, and feel our passion.

    The Vietnam War is an education for America. It is an expansive teaching experience, but the American people are the most brink-washed people in the world.

    At least the youth are learning that this country is no paradise – America kills infants and children in Vietnam without blinking. Only professional killers can be so cool.

    If you become hip to America in Vietnam, you can understand the reaction against the red-white-and-blue in Latin America, and you can feel why China hates us.

    They are not irrational – America is.

    Wallace is a left-wing agitator. Dig him. He speaks to the same anxiety and powerlessness that the New Left and yippies talk about.

    Do you feel overwhelmed by bigness, including Big Government?

    Do you lack control over your own life?

    Are you distrustful of the politicians and bureaucrats in Washington?

    Are you part of the “little people?”

    Wallace stirs the masses. Revolutions should do that too.

    When is the left going to produce an inflammatory and authentic voice of the people? A guy who reaches people’s emotions? Who talks about revolution the way some of those nuts rap about Christ?

    Wallace says: “We’re against niggers, intellectuals, liberals, hippies.”

    Everybody! He puts us all together. He organizes us for us.

    We must analyze how America keeps people down. Not by physical force, but by fear. From the second kids are hatched, we are taught fear. If we can overcome fear, we will discover that we are Davids fighting Goliath.

    In late September a friend calls and says, “Hay, I just got a subpoena from HUAC.”

    I say, “Yeah” I didn’t. What’s going on here? I’m angry. I want a subpoena too.

    It’s called subpoenas envy.

    So I telephone a confident to the Red Squad, a fascist creep who works for the San Francisco Examiner, and I say, “Hey, Ed, baby, what about HUAC? Are they having hearings?”

    He answers, “Well, I don’t know. Are they?”

    Well, my friend just got a subpoena.” I say. “I’d like on too. If you can manage it.”

    He says, “Call me back in a few hours.”

    I call him back that afternoon and he says, “Well, I just talked to HUAC in Washington, and you are right. They are having hearings, and they are looking for you in New York.”

    In NEW YORK? I’ve been in Berkeley a week! You guys are sure doing a shitty job trying to save this country!”

    We exaggerate the surveillance powers of cops. We shouldn’t. They are lazy. Their laziness may be the one reason why America doesn’t yet have a totally efficient police state.

    The cops were not lazy in Chicago. They followed the “leaders” continuously, 24 hours a day. If you are trailed by four cops just six steps behind you, you can’t do very much.

    But the people really doing things – why, the cops didn’t even know who they were!

    Pigs cannot relate to anarchy. They do not understand a movement based on personal freedom. When they look at our movement, they look for a hierarchy: leaders, lieutenants, followers.

    The pigs think that we are organized like a pig department. We are not, and that’s why we are going to win. A hierarchical, top-down organization is no match for the free and loose energy of the people.

    As the pigs check with their high-ups to find out what to do next, we have already switched the tactics and scene of the battle. They are watching one guy over there, and it is happening over here!

    I come to the HUAC hearings wearing a bandolero of real bullets and carrying a toy M-16 rifle on my shoulder. The rifle was a model of the rifles the Viet Cong steal and then use to kill American soldiers in Vietnam.

    The pigs stop me at the door of the hearings. They grab the bullets and the gun. It is a dramatic moment. Press and yippies pack us in tightly. The pigs drag me down three flights of stairs and remove the bullets, leaving the gun, Viet Cong pajamas, Eldridge Cleaver buttons, Black Panther beret, war paint, earrings, bandolero, and the bells which ring every time I move my body. My costume carried a nonverbal message: “We must all become stoned guerrillas.”

    The secret to the costume was the painted tits. Guerrilla war in America is going to come in psychedelic colors. We are hippie-guerrillas.

    In HUAC’s chambers Abbie Hoffman jumps up and yells out, “May I do to the bathroom?” Young kids reading that in their hometown papers giggle because they have to ask permission every time they want to go to the bathroom in school.

    The message of my costume flipped across the country in one day: an example of our use of the enemy’s institutions – her mass media – to turn on and communicate with one another.

    I wore a Santa Clause costume to HUAC two months later in a direct attempt to reach the head of every child in the country.

    Our victories are catching up with us: America isn’t ready to napalm us yet, but the future doesn’t look easy.

    From June to November 1968, when I was helping to organize the demonstrations against the Democratic convention in Chicago, I experienced the following example of Americana:

    New York pigs use a phony search warrant to bust into my apartment, question me, beat me, search the apartment and arrest me for alleged felonious possession of marijuana a pig in Chicago disguises himself as a biker to “infiltrate” the yippies as an agent provocateur and spy he busts me on a frame-up, “solicitation to mob action,” a felony punishable by five years in the pen the judge imposes $25,000 bail and restricts my travel to Illinois then the Justice Department in a document to a Virginia court admits that it maintains “electronic surveillance…of Jerry the interests of national security.”

    To try to suppress youth, Nixon will have to destroy the Constitution.

    We will be presumed guilty until proven innocent.

    Our privacy will vanish. Big Brother will spy on all of us and dominate our lives.

    Every cop will become a law until himself.

    The courts will become automatic transmission belts sending us to detention camps and prisons.

    People will be arrested for what they write and say.

    Congress will impose censorship on the mass media, unless the media first censors itself, which is more likely.

    To be young will be a crime.

    In response, we must never become cynical, or lose our capacity for anger. We must stay on the offensive and be aggressive: AMERICA: IF YOU INJURE ONE, YOU MUST FIGHT ALL.

    If our opposition is united, the repression may backfire and fail. The government may find the costs too heavy.

    Don’t think, “They can never get ME.”

    You are either on the side of the cops or on the side of human beings.

    Posted by: skip
    Views: 25603

    Clifton and Lois Dummett - Pioneers in Dental History

    Dr. Clifton Orrin Dummett was born on May 20, 1919 in Georgetown, British Guiana (now known as Guyana) to a pharmacist turned trained dentist, Alexander Adolphus Dummett. Clifton grew up wanting to be a dentist like his father, and it was his father that pushed him to attend dental school in the United States. Clifton traveled to the U.S. in 1936 at the age of 17, starting his pre-dental education at Howard University, transferring to Roosevelt University in Chicago to receive his B.A. in Psychology, and then achieving his D.D.S. degree at Northwestern University.

    Lois Maxine Doyle was born on November 21, 1919 in Chicago, Illinois to a physician. After receiving a B.A. from Roosevelt University in 1942, she became secretary to the President of the University and honed her skills in typing and editing.

    Between the two, they lived all over the U.S., accomplished a number of professional achievements, and have received a variety of awards and recognition. Lois laid claim to being assistant editor of the journals of American Association of Dental Editors and the National Dental Association, as well as to being an Honorary fellow of the Odontographic Society of Chicago, and received a Bicentennial Salute from the Human Relations Commission of Los Angeles in addition to other community based honors. Cli fton became the first African American to earn a Master's in Public Health, as well as holding the title of youngest dean at a dental college (28 years old) during his tenure at Meharry, was editor and chief of the National Dental Association's journal, obtained the rank of lieutenant colonel in the Air Force during his 24 years of service, and was integral in re-organizing dentistry's place in the Veterans Administration, and public health, starting with his time at Medical Center in Tuskegee, Alabama and continuing until his death.

    Although many deservedly focus on the immeasurable contributions to oral health and oral health education that the two were integral in stewarding, we want to highlight the Dummetts' efforts to not only record influential moments in dental history, but to collect, celebrate, and share the impact of African Americans on the profession of dentistry and public oral health. Together they published 10 books capturing segments of African American influence on the profession and its educational process, and Clifton is credited with over 300 journal articles to his name. Where the general history of dentistry is something that is still being analyzed and uncovered, the Dummetts were able to recognize and thoroughly detail a story within the profession that had never been told before. You can find copies of the Dummetts' books for purchase online, or you can visit our archives. 1. For more information on Clifton O. Dummett's life, from the man himself, check out his interviews done by the U.S.A. section of the International College of Dentists and The USC Emeriti Center
    2. A biography of Dr. Clifton O. Dummett written by Harold Slavkin can be found in the Journal of Dental Research, Dental Clinics, Dental Prospects
    3. The obituary and summary of Lois Maxine Dummett can be found on

    Dates to celebrate in Dentistry

    • National Dental Hygiene Month
    • Eat Better, Eat Together Month
    • Health Literacy Month
    • National Orthodontic Health Month
    • 1st - Bernard J. Cigrand's Birthday
    • 5th - World Smile Day
    • 8th - Columbus Day
    • 13th - Horace H. Hayden's Birthday
    • 13th - Dr. John S. Rock's Birthday
    • 21st - Charles Edmund Kells' Birthday
    • 22nd - Antonie van Leeuwenhoek's Birthday
    • 31st - Halloween
    • National TMJ Awareness Month
    • 1st - National Brush Day
    • 3rd - Charles Henry 'Doc' Strub Birthday
    • 7th - Thomas Berdmore Death Day
    • 10th - Veterans Day
    • 12th - Alexander Gordon Lyle's Birthday
    • 13th - Weedon Edward Osborne's Birthday
    • 24th - Sanford Christie Barnum's Birthday
    • 22nd - Thanksgiving
    • 5th - Dr. James Beall Morrison's Birthday
    • 7th - National Cotton Candy Day
    • 23rd - Thomas W. Evans' Birthday
    • 31 - Thomas Bramwell Welch's Birthday

    We've updated our Celebrating Dental Education Display!

    Come learn about all the ways you can become a dental professional and about the history of dental education!

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    The Drums of War

    This is my final part to this story. I hope you guys like it. here is the previous parts. Thank you all again for all the support you guys have shown and enjoy.

    The old world of Man is our father, whose legacy still reverberates in the halls of governments and the hushed whispers of children’s prayers. How can we ever live up to Man? For after all, they are who gave their lives so others needn’t know the horrors of war. The Venatori are our mothers: they brought us back, gave Man life and a home to call our own once again, and for that we will forever be in their debt. That does not make us blind to their mistakes. I know the rage you all felt at the Venatori, there are several here now who would have us turn our backs against our mother. What we all must remember is that like any mother the Venatori sought to make us a better version of themselves. And as they are like mothers to us, we are like children to them. They gave us life to repay what they viewed as the debt they owed to the humans of old for the betrayal of deeming the humans too deadly for civilized society. I look to the parents here today and ask “how many of you have told a comforting lie to your children?” I know that I have, and I can see from your faces that many of you have as well. The Venatori are no different, their biggest mistake wasn’t the lie but the idea that we would never come to know the truth.

    The day I found the truth is forever seared in my mind. I was 15, a teen coming into manhood and the venatori had showed me how to fly. After learning that I ached for freedom, for when I was young our mother was still on world with us, and I was driven by what the old humans called Wanderlust. Eventually the wanderlust consumed me and I went out on my own, without any plan or telling anyone where I was going. I simply needed to go out and see the stars with my own human eyes. After months of flying and seeing what the galaxy had to offer I decided to make a pilgrimage to old terra and I passed by what others had seen, the clouds of broken ships and men. And when I saw our lost world for the first time, and looked upon that cloud of broken men I am not ashamed to admit I wept for what we had lost. I descended to earth and looked upon the ruins the demons had made and felt for the first time, what rage felt like. We have known anger in our lives but those of us who have journeyed to our lost home know what true rage feels like. It is like your eyes swell in your skull, your muscles tighten and your brain numbs, your blood feels like fire and the old human instincts come alive awakening the sleeping warrior that the rest of the galaxy has come to so rightfully fear. I made my way to Svalbard, our own ark for those who have read the old human myths, desperate for something to end this rage I felt. I looked at the ships with our fallen fathers and I saw the Vault.

    Once inside I came upon the image of the last human leader Supreme War Commander Charles Parker. I listened to his plea and instead of quenching my rage he made it an inferno. I entered the vault and looked upon human history in all its terrible majesty and I was horrified. When the venatori taught us about humans they taught us a little of the cultures, we read some books, learned their languages but they said not enough had survived to give them a clear picture of our past. That was their great lie, for I looked upon the breadth of human history, both good and bad. I saw the horrors that the venatori had tried so hard to hide from us. And I felt the first stirring of the drums that we have all felt, the drums of war were merely sleeping inside me, inside all of us and they had just started their call.

    Five years I was in that vault. I read every book, from Shakespeare to Sun Tzu. I learned all that I could of our world. I found the old weapons and diagrams and made copies of all the information I could so I could bring them back to my world and spread what I had learned. To show the others what I had learned about the true nature of our parentage. Eventually I made my way back into space and that was where I saw it, hidden behind the shattered remains of Terra’s old moon. One of the demon ships, like those i saw locked around our planet, but this one was moving and intact. Probably someone like me come to see the last resting place of the humans. The rage that over those 5 years in the vault had smoldered burst to life once more into an almost blinding fury. I wanted nothing more than to ram my ship into this one and end us both in a ball of silent fire. But all that reading I had done had taught me the value of patience.

    I knew then in that moment that a second war was coming, but this time I hoped it would end in a different outcome. I slowly made my way home, pondering what I must do, should I tell the Venatori what I had seen? I decided that they did not have the fortitude to do what must be done and instead I decided to turn the new humans into the old. To remake in them the warriors that stood when all hope was lost as a jupiter, the warriors who fought every step of the way to their own extinction, the warriors who won at Svalbard!

    These last 50 years we have prepared. We have grown our people to fill two worlds, we have developed a culture all our own. We have become free from the direct oversight of our mothers and left to govern as we see fit. And all the while preparing for a war that no one has seen. We have traveled in our billions to see our lost home, and none have left without feeling the call of the drums. We have studied the wars of humans past and learned all they had to teach. We have perfected the last weapons of man.

    How could we have known that through all of our preparing that the demons would strike first, and worst still that they would strike at the edges of our mothers the Venatori? The demons clearly thought that now the humans are gone and the rest of the galaxy was theirs for the taking. The Venatori have held admirably these past years, and doing everything they can to shield us from the knowledge that the demons have returned. But we shan’t let them fight alone. I am here today because It is time to stir the sleeping warrior and begin the crusade that has been our birthright since I came screaming into this world 70 years ago. We shall stand as we should have all those lost years ago, shoulder to shoulder with the Venatori, screaming into the faces of the demons and we shall show them why the galaxy feared us. It is time brothers and sisters to in the words of the eternal Shakspeare time to “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!”

    Patterns and Ceremonials of the Indians of the Southwest

    THESE Southwestern Indians have much that we know we need. And they have one possession, the most distinguishing of all, which we have forgotten that we need. Rather, perhaps, we dare not hope to make it our own.

    That possession is a time sense different from ours, and happier. Once our white race had it too, and then the mechanized world took it away from us. Each of us has experienced that other and happier time sense in young childhood, and then we moved into the lockstep of clockwork time. We think, now, that any other time than linear, chronological time is an escapist dream. The Indians tell us otherwise, and their message and demonstration addresses itself to one of our deepest distresses and most forlorn yearnings.

    We bow to clockwork time. We think we must yield to it our all—body, conduct and soul. Strange vortex in the ocean of life, created by intellect and by the machine only yesterday in our racial history, and in hard contradiction with vital and spiritual instinct: such is clockwork time, necessary as a tool, deadly as a master.

    But we think it is our master, and here the Indians will gainsay us. And clockwork time—the event which in unmusical synchrony marches to the beat of the minutes, the hours, the onrushing and vanishing years of linear time—sweeps us and inwardly impels us faster and faster on. And enough of clockwork time we never have—never. And we abide so briefly, within that rush of linear time which subconsciously we experience as a kind of panic rout and we are old, so soon, and we are done, and we hardly had time to live at all.

    Not that we choose that life shall be that way. Did there exist—as the Indians in their whole life affirm—a dimension of time—a reality of time—not linear, not clock-measured, clock-controlled, and clock-ended for us, we would be glad we would enter it, and expand our being there. There are human groups, normal, and efficient in difficult ways of the world, which do thus expand their being, and the tribal Indians are among them.

    In solitary, mystical experience many of ourselves do enter another time dimension. But under the frown of clockwork time which claims the world, we place our experience out in an eternity beyond the years and beyond the stars. Not out there did the other time dimension originate, in racial history, but within the germ plasm and the organic rhythms and the social soul nor is its reference only or mainly to the moveless eternity. It is life’s instinct and environment, and human society’s instinct and environment. To realize it or not realize it makes an enormous difference, even a decisive difference. The Indians realize it, and they can make us know.

    There comes from England, by boat mail, a manuscript chapter of a book not yet published. Its writer is a British colonial administrator, recently lecturer on colonial administration at Oxford University, now returned to colonial service in Melanesia. Adrian Dobbs is his name a man of experience wide and profound. And his subject proves to be the time dimension, examined as a practical factor in the administration or servicing of the billion of pre-industrial inhabitants of Asia and Africa.

    Time, Adrian Dobbs suggests, does veritably have, for organisms, souls and societies, a dimension different from, and in contrast with, that merely linear dimension which our machines, clocks and calendars insist on. One, two, three, and thus on without pause or end, goes linear time the synchronized future is hurtled remorselessly across the knife-edge present into a time-ordered past where nothing changes, moves or acts forever. But not thus, Adrian Dobbs insists, does time appear to the Buddhists of Ceylon, to the Gaels of the wild northwest coast of Ireland, and to many another branch of the human race.

    In the mind of Buddhist Ceylon, in its private and public behavior, in its work rhythms and play rhythms, its private and public expectancies, linear time is not the only and not the controlling time. Instead, time as experienced and lived by Buddhist Ceylon is no linear instant wherein all real events march lockstep from nought to nought time is enduring and commanding future, which hurtles not across the narrow present to become immured in a linear past—enduring future which draws the present on and on. And time is enduring past, which is not dead and gone, which can enter and does enter the knife-edge present, but whose fundamental relationship is with the enduring future. In human reality, in Ceylon, this other time dimension contains the linear dimension as a sometimes phantasmal, sometimes insubordinate and unreconciled, lesser part in the final event, it is lord over linear time.

    Hence, human experience in Ceylon has an atmosphere and meaning and value somewhat different from experience with you and me. Life has an inner spaciousness greater than yours or mine. The capacity to wait, to endure, to possess the things that seem gone, and to strive, and socially to create, is somewhat different from ours. Dobbs believes that the difference is momentous, practically as well as emotionally and spiritually, and he asks: What will result, in changed world events, if the clock-mindedness of the modern, industrial West shall equate itself with the enduring-past and enduring-future mindedness of peoples like the Ceylonese? And how far representative, in this matter, are the Ceylonese?

    My mind goes to a certain American Indian tribe, one of those which are pictured in this book. The Tewan pueblo, Tesuque, is practically within the suburbs of Santa Fe, in New Mexico. Its contact with the white world has been a thing of every day, now into its fifth post-Columbian century. Tesuque is a tiny city-state its population is one hundred and fifty souls. Tesuque is at home in the white world. Economically and politically, it is a cooperative commonwealth, efficient, sophisticated, and of undeviating public virtue but the virtue contains within itself no puritan gloom. Tesuque functions, when need be, and through a secondary adaptation, along the narrow edge of linear Western time.

    In the autumn of 1922, I had occasion for long and absorbed meetings with the Governor of Tesuque and his Council of Principal Men. Whites had seized nearly all of Tesuque’s irrigable land. Legislation had been forced through the Senate by the Interior Department at Washington, designed to legalize the whites’ seizure of the tribe’s lands. The bill momentarily might pass in the House, and was assured of Presidential signature. And a drive to exterminate the Pueblos’ ancient religions had been launched by the government. Tesuque at that date was subsisting (I did not then know the fact, because the Tesuques never mentioned their bodily hunger) on a per capita income of a few cents over sixteen dollars a year, including all produce grown and consumed.

    Gradually, as our meetings progressed, and as Martin Vigil of Tesuque enlightened me by interpretation, I came to realize that I had entered a time dimension not like that of the white world from which I had come. These men and women were living in a time a thousand years ago. An event of many thousand years of group volition, no part of it lapsed into a dead past, was travailing across the present into a future of unknown thousands of years. Toward that enduring future, the tribe’s being and soul was winging like a migrating bird along its ancient migration route. So intense was the reality of this effort of flight between the twin eternities of past and future, that all minor aspects fell into oblivion. Personal contingency, personal fate simply did not figure at all. Hunger did not figure. A white well-wisher in Santa Fe discovered that the little tribe was in famine, and set in motion a newspaper campaign for relief. The Tesuques smiled, because the diversion from their real issue was friendly meant they stayed with their real issue.

    A violent action was in process (this was how the Tesuques viewed their crisis), an action directed from the outside against the tribe. The action was designed to kill what the white man called the Indians’ past, by shattering the bridge of tribal land and tribal religion which united past and future—the bridge on which the deathless two-way journey plied from living past to living future, living future to living past. Meeting the crisis, the twin eternities merged their brooding power and this they did at each of the twenty-one menaced pueblos in New Mexico, of which Tesuque was one. The result was planned action in the linear present—action which will be mentioned at its place in this book the action marked and made the beginning of the historic change in governmental policy which revolutionized the situation of all Indians. But at this point, the subject is the time dimension of tribal Indian life, that all-conserving abysm of time wherein is no past wholly gone and no future wholly inert.

    On another occasion, some years later, at a pueblo which I may not name, the tribe’s priestly representative was assisting for initiation into the tribe a young man from another pueblo who had married a girl of this pueblo. Much that he told this young man, the teacher was not free to tell to me. But part of the tutelage was the unveiling of the hidden names and the spiritual meanings of hundreds of physical places, wide over the land. Mesas, plinths, streams and springs forests that existed no more, trails unused for hundreds of years. Some of the places had vanished utterly with the passage of linear time the highest mountain peak, in one of the sacred areas along the Rocky Mountain range, was the highest no longer, and the tree line had moved downward two hundred vertical feet since these tribal memories, as we would call them, this tribal present, as the Indians knew it, had been born. The memories, the present, spanned geological time.

    But, Geronimo, I remarked, your tribe does not own these places and boundaries any more. He replied: We own them in our soul.

    In those years, I still took for granted our modern fatalism: that the Indian’s spirit, and all aboriginal and ancient spirit, had to die. Omnipotent clockwork time must engulf all. The glory and power of that other time dimension would have to yield to the cosmopolitan century. I knew it would mean diminishing the human stature, draining the dearest meaning out of the universe, the stripping away of his uniquely vital and human part from man, the greater dominance of mechanism over life. But it had to be, I believed and only in solitary, mystical experience, thereafter, would all-conserving and prophetic, dynamic, creative time be known.

    The ensuing twenty-five years seem to have proved that the fatalism was wrong, not only as applied to the American tribal Indian but as applied to groups in many parts of the world. That time

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    After the Vault: A Commonwealth Story by Whitelightstep

    Fandoms: Fallout 4

    Female Sole Survivor, Gladen Reed (formerly Gladen Smith in 2077), exits Vault 111 to find the world irrevocably changed. Unsure of how to proceed, the pre-war woman seeks out an identity upon the Wasteland, motivated by survival and closure. At first, it seems the only hostiles to face against on the Commonwealth are creatures such as ghouls, bloatflies and the occasional Raider. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Not everyone has the interests of others at heart, and Gladen will have to decide how best to deal with the ruthless nature of a selfish world.

    [This is a re-work of my previous fanfic by the same name.]

    Watch the video: Neanderthals science project (June 2022).


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