Tag: politics

from the Edge of the List

So, it’s official: Pam Bondi, Attorney General and microphone wielder, has reportedly directed the FBI to compile a list of “anti-American” groups. The leaked memo reads like a fever dream of ideological purity — targeting anyone who dares question immigration enforcement, capitalism, gender norms, or traditional family values.

In other words, if you’ve ever posted a meme about billionaires, marched for trans rights, or wondered aloud whether Jesus would deport asylum seekers — congratulations, you might be on the list.

I can’t say I’m surprised. When college students began being arrested for writing in campus newspapers, I figured it was only a short walk to us on social media. The ink dries, the post goes live, and suddenly free speech is treated like contraband.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t just a rumor. It’s been fact-checked and confirmed. You can do your own fact-checking, too — the memo exists, the directive is real. What we’re smelling here isn’t the sweet air of liberty; it smells like dictatorship.

The memo builds on Trump’s NSPM‑7 directive and paints dissent as domestic terrorism. It’s not about violence — it’s about views. And if your views don’t align with the administration’s gospel, you’re suddenly a threat.

Do your own fact-checking. Here are the verified fact-checking and reporting links on Pam Bondi’s leaked DOJ memo directing the FBI to compile lists of “anti-American” groups:

  • Snopes – Confirmed leaked memo
  • Reuters – Bondi orders law enforcement to investigate “extremist groups”
  • Ken Klippenstein – Original leaked memo publication
  • Common Dreams – Coverage of Bondi memo
  • Democracy Now! – “Domestic Terrorism” leaked DOJ memo
  • Nation of Change – Memo targets anti‑Americanism, anti‑capitalism, anti‑Christianity
  • Crooks and Liars – Bondi plans to treat anti‑Trump activists as domestic terrorists
  • Factually – Fact‑check summary of Bondi memo

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November 15, 1969 — Vietnam Moratorium

On this day in 1969, the Vietnam Moratorium Committee staged one of the most potent anti-war protests in American history. Students, activists, religious leaders, veterans—millions of us—took to the streets, calling for an end to the war and the withdrawal of American troops.

And I was there. I remember the sound of voices rising together, the signs carried high, Peace Now, Bring the Boys Home, Stop the Killing. It wasn’t fringe, it wasn’t small. It was a broad coalition of Americans from every walk of life, standing shoulder to shoulder in a peaceful, nonviolent demand for change.

The Moratorium wasn’t just one day. It was a series of protests, teach-ins, vigils, and marches that grew month after month. On November 15, 1969, it culminated in Washington, D.C., where more than half a million people gathered—the largest anti-war demonstration in U.S. history. From Arlington National Cemetery to the Capitol Building, we marched and listened to voices that carried moral weight: Senator George McGovern, Coretta Scott King, Pete Seeger, Muhammad Ali, John Kerry, Daniel Ellsberg, and Abbie Hoffman.

President Nixon wasn’t swayed. Just weeks earlier, he had given his “silent majority” speech, asking Americans to back his plan for “Vietnamization”—gradually withdrawing U.S. troops while shifting responsibility to South Vietnamese forces. He claimed to have a secret plan to end the war, but offered no details. His approval ratings soared, and many rallied behind him.

But for those of us in the streets, the war was not an abstract policy. It was blood and loss, friends drafted, lives shattered. We weren’t silent, and we weren’t a minority. We were the conscience of a nation, refusing to let the killing continue unnoticed.

Looking back, the Vietnam Moratorium was more than a protest. It was a turning point in public opinion, proof that ordinary people could gather in extraordinary numbers to demand peace. It showed the world that America’s heart was divided, and that many of us believed the war was morally, politically, and economically wrong.

I was there, and I carry that memory with me still—the chants, the music, the hope, and the stubborn belief that voices raised together can bend history.

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RAMBLING HARBOR: Red Flags, Pink Dreams, and the Ghost of Karl Marx

So it begins again.

Out here in Rambling Harbor, where the fog rolls thicker than campaign promises and gulls squawk like pundits, I heard the old chant—Communism!—echoed not from a union hall, but from the gilded throat of a man who once sold steaks and bankrupt casinos. Trump saw Zohran Mamdani win the mayor’s race and called him a communist. Not a progressive. Not a democratic socialist. Just red paint on a dreamer.

It’s familiar. Every time someone feeds the hungry or dares to house the poor, the powerful reach for fear. They don’t know Marx from Mamdani, but they know fear sells. Say “communism” loud enough, and you don’t have to explain why the soup kitchen’s empty or the subway’s crumbling.

Trump says it’s “communism vs. common sense.” But if common sense means ignoring hunger, I’ll take the red flag and wave it like a lifeline.

Out here, we remember sovereignty isn’t yachts and tax breaks—it’s warm meals, safe beds, and mayors who dream in public.

And I’ve been thinking about words. Big ones. Loaded ones. Communism dreams of erasing the lines. Socialism redraws them more fairly. One says, “No rich or poor.” The other says, “Let’s make sure the poor don’t die waiting.”

We weaponize both. Call libraries socialist and bailouts capitalist. We forget the post office is a miracle, and roads don’t pave themselves.

Me? I’m just a poet with a busted radio, listening to hunger beneath the headlines and wondering what kind of world we could build if we stopped arguing about labels and started listening to mercy.

Out here in Rambling Harbor, the tide keeps rising. And I keep writing—because someone has to remember the difference between a dream and a distraction.

—Dan, still rambling, still harboring

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Clamshell Echoes: A Rambling Harbor Reflection on Seabrook and Sanctuary

There was a time when the salt air of New Hampshire carried more than the scent of low tide; it had the pulse of resistance. I remember it not as a headline or a footnote, but because I was there as part of the Clamshell Alliance, and we stood stubborn and unarmed against the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant.

We weren’t just protesting a facility; we were trying to protect a way of life. The marshes, the estuaries, the fragile coastline — they weren’t just geography. And when the government said “progress,” we said “not here.”

My friend Ron Rieck, a pacifist apple picker with the soul of a poet, climbed the weather observation tower in January 1976 and stayed there for 36 cold hours. Alone but not isolated, he turned that tower into a lighthouse of resistance. I was supposed to go up there with him. That was the plan. But duty called me back to Baltimore, to Jonah House, where the work of peace and resistance and support was unfolding in its own sacred rhythm. I wasn’t there in body on the tower with Ron, but I was there in spirit, tethered by purpose and friendship.

In May of 1977, over 2,000 of us occupied the construction site. This time I was there. I felt the ground beneath me, the tension in the air, and the quiet resolve of people who knew they might be arrested but refused to be silenced. More than 1,400 of us were taken into custody. We slept on armory floors, shared stories, and turned confinement into communion.


The Clamshell Alliance wasn’t just a protest group—it was a blueprint for change. We organized in affinity groups, practiced nonviolence, and made sure our resistance was as disciplined as it was passionate. We weren’t radicals. We were caretakers. And we believed that energy should be clean, democratic, and rooted in respect for the land.

Seabrook eventually went online in 1990, but not without delay, bankruptcy, and a legacy of resistance that still echoes. The plant may have risen, but so did we. And in that growing, we shaped a movement that inspired anti-nuclear activism across the country. Jonah House, as the war in Vietnam ended, became involved in Nuclear disarmament, as Phil Berigan said. “Nuclear weapons are the scourge of the earth; to mine for them, manufacture them, deploy them, use them, is a curse against God, the human family, and the earth itself.”

Now, decades later, I sit in Rambling Harbor and remember. Not with bitterness, but with pride. Because sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is stand still. To plant your feet in the sand and say, “This matters.”

We were clamshells—fragile, beautiful, and unbreakable in our unity. And though the tide has shifted, the memory remains. A protest becomes a poem. A moment becomes a movement. And a harbor becomes a sanctuary.

Here is a line from Allen Ginsberg’s Plutonian Ode: “I declare the end of War!” “I chant your absolute Vanity. Yes, you are pure Void.” “I enter your secret places with my mind…” “I call upon the soul of Man to arise and walk.”

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