Lucy Parsons

“There is no power on earth so great as the power of intellect. It moves the world and it moves the earth.”

Women Race and Class, Angela Davis

DEBT: The first 5,000 years - David Graeber

Anarchism- Daniel Gurérin

A People's Guide to Capitalism - Hadas Thier

Dirtbag - Amber Allee Frost

Burn after reading,

It’s happening right now. Every strike, every step we take together—no matter how small—pushes us closer to the world we deserve. Workers from all walks of life, from every corner of the city, are standing up. Together, we are louder, stronger, and unstoppable.

This fight isn’t just ours. It’s theirs too—the ones who have been silent for far too long. The ones who will join us when they see the power we’ve already built. We are building, and we are fighting. And we will not stop.

We are changing the story, one moment at a time.

An injury to one is an injury to all. And when we stand together, we rise.

Today we celebrate not just your birth, but the years you’ve spent shaking the foundations of this system. You’ve walked tirelessly through the fires of labor struggles, with the voice of the oppressed carried on your back like a sacred flame.

You’ve seen the hardships, felt the blows of those who would rather see us broken. And yet, you stand, unyielding, a symbol of defiance, of solidarity, of hope. Your hands have raised the downtrodden, your words have kindled courage in the hearts of countless workers. You taught us all what it means to fight for what is right, not what is easy.

I watch you, Mother, as you stand before the crowds, your conviction as unshakable as your heart. Your power, your passion, is as endless as the struggle itself. There are not enough words to capture the depth of admiration I hold for you, for the way you carry the weight of justice, not as a burden but as a call to arms.

I, too, have walked this path beside you, though we have often tread different roads. I’ve heard your stories, seen your triumphs, and felt your strength in the quiet moments between battles. What we share — that unspoken understanding between two who are driven by the same fire — is a bond that transcends any simple definition. Some bonds cannot be labeled; they simply are.

May this day bring you the recognition you deserve, and may the fire of your spirit burn ever brighter. You are a testament to all that is possible when the soul refuses to yield. I am proud to know you. Happy Birthday, Mother Jones."

Burn after reading,

What has your union done for you?

Has it fought for you, or has it sold your labor for pennies? Has it defended you, or has it left you to starve? Has it told you the truth—that your labor makes the world run, that the bosses would be nothing without you—or has it told you to be grateful for their chains?

The Industrial Workers of the World is not like the old unions. We do not beg for better treatment; we demand control. We do not break the working class into trades and crafts; we unite as one. We do not exist to make peace with capitalism; we exist to end it.

Join us. Stand with us. Fight with us.

An injury to one is an injury to all.

✉ To join or inquire, write to: IWW, Central Office 67 W. Madison St., Chicago, IL

Burn after reading,

"Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses." – The women of the 1912 Lawrence Textile Strike knew that survival was not enough. Music has always been a weapon, a banner, a battle cry. Here’s a playlist for those still fighting.

Listen. Remember. Rise.

Burn after reading,

At last, at last, the working class has a banner it can rally under—not one carved up by craft and trade, not one shackled by compromise, but one that belongs to all of us.

They told us we must bargain, that we must beg for scraps while the bosses feast. No more. They told us that divisions of skill, race, and gender were natural, that some of us were worth more than others. No more. They told us that the capitalists would always rule, that the workers would always toil, that no force could unmake the system that exploits us. No more.

The Industrial Workers of the World was born from the conviction that the working class needs no masters. That we hold the power—not the politicians, not the corporations, not the hired guns of the state. That we can organize, fight, and build a world where no one grovels for a wage.

The old unions told us to be patient. I say we have waited long enough.

Burn after reading,

Happy birthday to John Most,

Someone who knows that silence is the greatest betrayal to justice. Your words have always been sharp, fearless, and unapologetic in the face of a society that wishes to keep us quiet. The pen is your sword, John, and you’ve fought for workers, the oppressed, and the forgotten with it tirelessly. May you continue to stir the souls of the ones who need it most, today and every day. Happy Birthday.

Burn after reading,

The Haymarket Affair, that’s what they are calling it, I hear. As if it were some sordid scandal, some petty drama between feuding elites, and not the blood of workers soaking the streets.

We cannot allow ourselves to regard our comrades and their sacrifice with such casual disdain.

Let us look back on these past months—not with detachment, but with the clarity of hindsight and the weight of what was stolen from us.

Mayday May 1, 1886

McCormick Massacre May 3, 1886

Haymarket Riot May 4, 1886

Our Anarchists

Judge Joseph E. Gary

Prosecuter Julius S. Grinell

Chief Inspector John Bonfield

The Trials -- June, 1886

The Execution November 11, 1886

Burn after reading,

They murdered my husband today.

They dragged Albert from his cell, marched him to the gallows like a trophy, bound his hands as if they had not already sentenced him to death. They slipped the noose around his neck with steady hands, cowards that they are, hiding behind their laws, their robes, their weapons—anything to keep from facing the truth of what they’ve done.

They would not even let me see him. They locked me away like a criminal, as if my grief could start a riot, as if my love for him was a danger they could not allow to roam free. And maybe it is. Maybe they should be afraid.

I was not there when they dropped the trapdoor. I was not there when the rope snapped tight. I was not there when my husband gasped his last breath.

But I felt it all the same.

I felt it in the hush before the fall, the moment where the whole world held its breath. I felt it in the crack of the rope, in the stunned silence that followed. I felt it in the hollow left behind, in the space where a good man had stood before the state decided he must die.

Do not mistake this for justice. Do not let them tell you this was law. Law had no place in that courtroom, no voice in that sentence. This was murder. This was revenge. This was the state lashing out in fear, making an example of him because they know—they know—that Albert was right.

This was their warning to you, to me, to every worker who has dared to dream of something more. Obey, or be destroyed.

But listen—do you hear it?

Not silence. Never silence.

I hear the roar of voices rising in anger. I hear the sound of presses rolling, printing his name, his words, his legacy into history. I hear hammers striking steel, I hear fists slamming onto tables, I hear the murmurs of a thousand men and women who are done being afraid.

They think they have buried the fire.

They have only scattered the embers. And we will burn brighter than ever before.

Burn after reading,

Ah, yes, ladies and gents on this day, June 21, 1886, we have been so blessed to witness the great impartial justice of the courts. Do sit down, gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve rehearsed your little play quite well. Here is the scene: eight men on trial, charged not with planting a bomb, not with throwing it, not even with witnessing the crime—but with thinking the wrong thoughts. With organizing workers. With standing against tyranny.

Evidence? Unnecessary. A fair jury? Not a chance. Not when the judge hand-picked them to be merchants, clerks, and men with open contempt for labor. Verdict? A foregone conclusion.

These men were not put on trial for any crime. They were put on trial for daring to exist in opposition to the ruling class.

And yet the state overreaches. It thinks that hanging a few radicals will break the movement. It believes that fear is a stronger force than rage.

Oh, gentlemen. You have always underestimated us.

Burn after reading,

They wanted a reason. So they made one.

A bomb—hurled into the ranks of the police, an explosion ripping through the night. And in an instant, the rally became a massacre.

The police did not seek the bomber. They did not stop to ask, to think. They opened fire. Into the smoke, into the crowd. They fired into the backs of men and women who had come to demand nothing more than a fair day’s wage.

The dead littered the square—workers, officers, innocents. And yet, it is only we who will be made to answer for the blood spilled tonight.

Now the city thirsts for vengeance. Not justice—vengeance. They will storm our homes, drag our comrades from their beds. They will not ask who threw the bomb, only who dared to speak against them. They will call us anarchists, as if that word alone is proof of guilt. They will hold trials without evidence, pass sentences without crime.

And when they have hanged the best among us, they will tell you it was justice.

Let history remember this: we did not begin the violence. We did not bring the bloodshed. But we will not let it end with us.

Burn after reading,

Tonight, May 4, 1886, we gathered in Haymarket Square, not as criminals, not as radicals, but as workers—men and women who refuse to be trampled beneath the boots of industry.

Despite the blood spilled yesterday at McCormick, we stood together, thousands strong, to demand what is rightfully ours: dignity, fair wages, and the eight-hour workday. The speeches rang through the square—calm, resolute. We are not asking for justice; we are declaring that it will be ours.