You find me this morning in a nostalgic mood, one prompted
by news from the White House that the simple mansion in which I was raised is to
be made a US National Monument.
The announcement honours my role as the progenitor
of the US civil wrights movement which transformed the conduct of skilled
manual workers in the 1950s. Few now can
remember the days in which my movement was formed, days in which it
was not possible to walk from one end of a craft-village to the other without the
cussing of curmudgeonly wrights bringing a wine-hued blush to one's cheek.
Upon
its launch the movement was greeted by characteristically impolite catcalls
from the artisan community, but I was undaunted. March after march, impassioned
speech after impassioned speech, I laboured for a cause I knew to be wright,
sorry, right.
Hitting new oratorical heights with my ‘I have a dream’ address in
Bettysburg- an address that had old and young alike in tears at my vision of a manufactory
world free of incivilities- I stood foursquare
against the combined enmities of a nation’s artificers, braving all to ensure
that one day we would be…
(… is wheeled away by nurses.)
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