The following letter was written by a woman worker and friend of Progressive Labor Party (PLP) after attending her first PLP May Day celebration in Brooklyn.

I was running late. And so was the bus. So I had to rush down Flatbush Ave and was hearing in my head some Looney Tunes character shouting “May Day! May Day!”—the soundtrack of my anxiety that I was too late and was going to miss it--my first Progressive Labor Party May Day. But then I heard the music and the chants and then I saw the red line. I’ve been to radical marches before, but there was something different here. Was it the diversity? The chant “Latin, Asian, Black and white,  workers of the world unite” certainly found itself incarnate in the bodies marching down Flatbush Avenue.  

While some marches are more diverse than others, I’d certainly been to diverse marches before. Was it radicalism? “It’s not just Trump, it’s capitalism” is not necessarily the overall or general sentiment of, say, a No King’s March, but I’ve heard the urgent radicalism of “globalize the intifada” and the radical hyperbole of “eat the motherf***in’ rich” at other marches and demonstrations. But as I approached the red line, the soundtrack of anxiety in my head shut off and shifted into something else, another familiar sound of childhood, my favorite song of Saturday morning cleaning, Ismael Rivera’s “Las Caras Lindas.” 

Indeed, I saw before me “un desfile de melaza en flor,” a parade of molasses in bloom. Las caras lindas de mi gente obrera, to riff off of the great Maelo. Growing up, that song would energize me for the labor ahead, the chore of cleaning, and would fill me with joy, and I think that was the thing about this May Day march. I found myself surprised by joy. While the chant was going “They’re killing kids overseas. Shut it down! They’re killing kids on our streets! Shut it down! They’re getting killed by the police! Shut it down!” people were dancing and bobbing. Most marches I’ve been to, the only ones enjoying the march are the marchers. Pedestrians go head down, trying to zigzag their way through, huffing. The drivers are annoyed at the disruption. 

Marches and demonstrations are supposed to be disruptive. But joy is disruptive, too, especially in New York, especially in capitalism. It’s a different kind of disruption and for all you could tell on Flatbush Avenue, it was a welcome disruption. At one point, I saw a driver enjoying the beat of the chants and then he picked up the words of the chant “There is only one solution! communist revolution!” 

He seemed startled, then curious. This is what communism looks like? Indeed! Las caras lindas de mi gente obrera.  “Somos la melaza que rie.” We are the molasses that laughs. “Somos la melaza que llora.” We are the molasses that cries. We mourn and we dance. We tell our story walking, meaning we tell the sad truths of capitalist oppression marching in jubilant triumph. On the bus ride back, the children told of how tired their legs were, but they were laughing. 

One five-year old proclaimed proudly that this was his sixth May Day. I started the May Day march running to catch up, and I ended with the feeling that I needed to run to catch up to that kid in so many ways. Not just that kid but everyone on that bus who shared such powerful takeaways from the march. But the soundtrack they left in my head is the joy that gives energy for the task ahead. Las caras lindas de mi gente obrera, thank you!