Mayday May 1st, 1886
The streets of Chicago are alive.
Today, tens of thousands of working men and women march—not for spectacle, not for some empty pageantry, but for something far more urgent, something that has been long denied: the right to our time, to our own lives, to a future that does not grind us into dust before we can enjoy it.
We have labored from dawn to dusk, from youth to old age, for scraps from the tables of men who grow bloated on our exhaustion. The factory bells ring, and we move like cattle. The machinery swallows us whole. The wealthy speak of hard work and thrift while we rot in tenements and struggle to feed our children. And yet, when we rise and say, “Enough,” they call us radicals.
They say eight hours of work is too little.
They say our demand is unreasonable.
They say industry will collapse if the workers dare to rest.
But we say: We are the ones who built these factories. We are the ones who turn the gears of this city. We are the ones who produce the wealth they hoard. And we will no longer work ourselves into the grave for them.
We do not ask for permission.
We do not beg for mercy.
We do not hope for their generosity.
The eight-hour day is ours for the taking.
So be it. If order means our suffering, let it fall.
The press calls this a riot. The industrialists call it anarchy. The police call it a threat to public order.
Burn after reading,
Lucy Parsons
