“The Wheel’s Still In Spin”
Ancestry, Political Organizing, and Crying to Bob Dylan
“When the roots are deep, there is no reason to fear the wind.”
It was an unusually mild afternoon for November in Milwaukee. I had been driving since 7 am, delivering materials to teams of dedicated canvassers in every corner of the city — a standard duty for field directors on days of elections. With my patience for traffic and podcast queue both depleted, I opened my music library and played Bob Dylan’s iconic tune of unrest, “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” from his 1964 album of the same name. I heard Dylan’s twangy voice recite the song’s first lines as I navigated north from Milwaukee’s east side. Just then, a wave of emotion flooded through the windows of my minivan and drenched me in unplaceable feeling. I maximized the volume, put the song on repeat, and began to cry.
Four months earlier, I was on my mom’s couch coupling myself to five open tabs of job boards on my laptop’s browser. Between the hundreds of listings of which I was underqualified existed an open position for a field director in a massive voter registration campaign. I held both paid and unpaid positions in political organizing since my first semester of college. Still, only a year since my return from Iowa, I had not had the chance to put in the same effort in my home state.
Two weeks and two interviews later, I was offered and accepted a team lead position with the possibility for promotion. That promotion came three months later. However, with the preexisting knowledge of the campaign’s internal mechanics, the two-day virtual directorship training had little to offer me. So, like many of us bored of online webinars and remote meetings, I began a casual side venture that kept me stimulated while in the view of my webcam.
Researching my lineage always piqued my interest but was never obliged with any mental bandwidth. Once I began, though, I fell into a rabbit hole of history and heritage. I was able to trace my paternal ancestors back to their emigration from Prussian territory in 1870. I also read about the origins and logistics of this immigration wave that took my great-great-grandfather and 1.7 million others through the Erie Canal to settle in Milwaukee.
I also found that my family has been in Milwaukee for 150 years. My paternal grandfather, a Milwaukee police detective, came from a family of talented machinists. His uncle, an engineer and company man for Milwaukee-founded company Master Lock, shares over twenty patents with the padlock titan’s founder. I found the exact year my family changed their name to Foote to avoid xenophobic stereotypes that led to the exploitation and persecution of Prussian and Polish immigrants (see The Bay View Massacre of 1886). I examined old maps of Milwaukee graphed with streets where my family once lived but now no longer exist.
Thanks to this weeklong research project, I can now turn to my familial roots whenever I lose touch with my true intentions. I’m fortunate, though, for being able to look upon this ancestry with little heartache. Many American citizens are unable to do so. Those who may take part in the same genealogical endeavor I find their same discoveries hold different connotations. Discovering old relatives’ addresses may remind them of the abhorrent redlining of the 20th century. Burial records may show loved ones taken too soon by the effects of impoverished conditions.
Organizers with these familial histories may tell you it is precisely why they organize and advocate. However, it may be more challenging to find a justification for those without systemic adversity in their lineage. Personally, I struggle with issues of white guilt and interest convergence, wondering if the transitory nature of these campaigns I work on does more to hinder community trust than build it. But in these moments, I now look at my ancestry for solace. For better or worse, Milwaukee is my home. Seven generations of my family have established themselves here, determined to improve society using their respective strengths.
While that period of mass immigration my ancestors took part in shaped Milwaukee’s identity as a mecca of brats and beer, the aftermath of The Great Migration defined the contemporary social structures of this lakeside metropolis. Insidious housing discrimination and systematic economic depletion resulted in levels of adversity that are nothing short of tragic. This is the history that motivates community action and campaigns like the one I participated in. However, the former account, my family’s history, is what inspired me to write this piece. These histories in tandem are what led me to cry in my car on that sunny autumn afternoon.
There will always be work to do, always systems that aim to benefit the few while suppressing the many. Finding work that fulfills you can, at times, be daunting and discouraging. Even when you find such a position, as I did, you can become weary of the unpolished quantifications and logistical headaches that are practically inherent in organizing work. It is also normal for you to question not only your performance but the actual attainability of your cause’s mission. You may lose sight of why you got involved in the first place.
Do not let this subdue you.
In an ideal world, this work wouldn’t be necessary. You wouldn’t have these worries because your advocacy wouldn’t be needed. But that isn’t the case, and wanting to make an impactful change doesn’t inherently give you a savior complex. What I’ve found to be the most effective deterrent for these doubts is much less corny than a spontaneous emotional outburst brought on by a fifty-year-old protest song. Instead, it is the periodic reminder to focus on the narratives of the helped, not the helper. Organizers can find pride in their work by acknowledging the differences between their own history and the ones that shape the communities they intend to serve.
We all have details in our backgrounds gone unknown to each other. Nevertheless, they all compile to reveal the fortunes and flaws in the anthology that is the American experiment. The best thing we can do is acknowledge the breadth of our ancestral genres to identify our provocations and find true meaning in our reactions.
“Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who that it’s namin’
For the loser now will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin’”
