I’m moving to Oakland next month (read: this weekend) but because of the Bay Bridge closure, it’s a little hard for me to haul my books, books and books (some clothes, furniture, maps, posters too) to the other side of the Bay.
So instead, I’m thinking of driving down the coast again, just like I did last week and the week before that. And maybe join in on the fun at the Oakland Alternative Pride (Stas and Cat from THEESATISFACTION were there too last year!) for a bit, for some anti-capitalist, queer-loving, community-building celebration of queer pride.
And then proceed to do the following: read, write, cook, sit, read some more, write some more, eat. I’ve got simple plans, but something’s amiss.
This always happens every time there’s a major U.S. holiday. Except for Christmas and New Year’s Day, I never had any context on the significance of those dates. I was grateful for the day off, or the extended weekend, but I was also that person who would work that day so everyone else in my workplace can have the day off. There would be BBQs, or potlucks, or cook-outs but I was usually indifferent. Sometimes I’d go, more often I stayed at home, doing one of the things listed in the previous paragraph. I guess one could call it a privilege because all my family and friends live in the Bay, and I could see them anytime I wanted to.
And thus my process of thinking about this holiday, the event/s that led to it, what it actually means.
So, Labor Day. According to the Department of Labor, it is a yearly national tribute to the creation of the labor movement and its dedication to the social and economic achievements of workers.
Really though, this holiday cannot sound any more ironic (almost laughable, to be honest) to me because of the current state and realities of the labor movement in the country, even in the Bay.