The Martyrdom of Sacco and Vanzetti

La giustizia . . .

Innocent hearts, self-education men, paesani, Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti, one with a son named Dante, a fish peddler and a shoemaker, at the end of a seven-year trial for murder were strapped into the electric chair at Charlestown Prison, Boston at midnight on August 23, 1927 as a large crowd under police control stood vigil in a public square watching the light in the prison tower which was extinguished at the moment of death. Simple men, already condemned before the trial, by arrogance, stubbornness, spite who nevertheless had faith in the American system of justice, writing letters to their wives and their legions of blue-blood supporters full of passion, hope, nobility, dignity, quiet suffering, and class consciousness.

Fraternita . . .

Fearless anarchists, they made a sacred pact to prune the rotten branches from the tree whose roots ran home to the old world. Sacco wrote to Mrs. Leon Henderson, “Pardon me, it is not to discredit or ignore you . . . and I am respectful: But it is the warm sincere voice of an unrest heart and a free soul that lived and loved among the workers class all his life.” Upon being sentenced to death Vanzetti made a statement to the court, “If it had not been for this, I might have live out my life talking at streetcorners to scorning men . . . Never in our full life can we do such a work for tolerance, for justice . . . for men’s understanding of men, as we do now by accident . . . The last moment belongs to us -- that agony is our triumph!” Those were the final words he spoke.

Liberita . . . Sacco’s last letter to his child Dante is high-minded and full of wisdom. One more look at his wife and he flew backwards to their youth saw her beauty as a young woman una bella giovinezza once again. Vanzetti had consecrated his life to the cause of freedom. In jail he fasted, remained silent, as Death stood by lending him authority. Voiceless, he spoke like Abraham and died a martyr to his faith.

2 Night’merica

America’s memory. the history of America, has gaping holes where the things we want to forget have fallen through. But at night these unquiet creatures crawl out and run marauding through the well-kept garden of our working days.

Men and women recline in the shade under the trees of this garden watered with innocent blood as the flowers too soak it up their blossoms turning black to those who can see. The eyes of the martyred dead are filled with flowers.

Nicola and Bartolomeo we read your hearts in the falling leaves and dropping petals.

The blood and salt of the martyred dead cry out from the earth to those who can hear them.

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