Carlos wrote:Hi Brian.
Can you explain some things on the life and the facts of Marcelino García, please?
MARCELINO GARCIA
Source: Paul Avrich, Anarchist Voices: An Oral History of Anarchism in America (AK Press 2005).
Introduction by Professor Paul Avrich:
An immigrant from Spain [San Martin, Oviedo] as a boy, Marcelino Garcia worked at a variety of hard jobs before settling in New York and meeting Pedro Esteve (1866-1925), editor of “Cultura Obrera” and the foremost Spanish anarchist in America. After Esteve’s death, Garcia emerged as a leading figure within the Cultura Obrera Group. For more than two decades he edited “Cultura Proletaria,” which succeeded “Cultura Obrera” as the principal Spanish anarchist journal in America. He was also a popular speaker at anarchist picnics and meetings, with his lilting voice and jet black hair and flowing mustache. During the 1920s and 1930s, Garcia was active in the campaign to save Sacco and Vanzetti, in the Solidaridad Internacional Anti-fascista, and in other libertarian causes. In 1937 he spent several weeks in Spain (where he met Emma Goldman) and provided an eyewitness description of the social revolution for the readers of “Cultura Proletaria.” With the victory of General Franco, however, and the outbreak of world war, the Spanish anarchist movement in America entered a period of decline from which it never recovered. In 1952 “Cultura Proletaria” suspended publication. A few years later Garcia’s companion Gloria developed a blood clot which left her paralyzed. Moving to a small house in Palmerton, Pennsylvania, Garcia nursed her until her death after five years of suffering. Tragedy struck again in 1975 when his son, who lived with him in Palmerton, was killed in an accident. On April 1, 1977, Marcelino himself passed away in his eighty-fourth year, bringing to an end his long and active career as a libertarian socialist.
Interview conducted December 18, 1971, Palmerton, Pennsylvania, USA by Professor Paul Avrich:
I was born in 1893 in San Martin (Oviedo) in the Asturias region of northern Spain, where all the rebels come from. My father was a socialist. We came to the US twice, the first time illegally when I was thirteen, then again soon after. At fifteen I was a zinc worker in West Virginia. Our family moved a lot; we were like gypsies. I worked on the docks, stoked coal furnaces, and was an elevator operator in New York. My favorite places are the town where I was born and New York. All I learned was in New York.
When did I become an anarchist? As far as I am concerned I was born an anarchist. It was in my nature, my emotions. I didn’t have to read about it; it was within me. At seven or eight years old I already had great admiration for the anarchists. I saw in them men who were willing to fight for the poor. Angiolillo, for example. He once came to my town. He was my angel. At the time I thought anarchism was a secret society. What kind of anarchist am I? A simple anarchist. The Italians say they are individualists, but they are as collectivist as you or I. A syndicalist? No. A more precise term for anarchist would be libertarian socialist. That should be the name.
The greatest influence in my life was Pedro Esteve. Look at his picture and you will see why. He was a great moral influence. I got to know him well only during the last few months of his life, though we had met several times previously and I had read his journal “Cultura Obrera.” He was the outstanding leader of the Spanish anarchists in America, an educated man who could speak in simple terms. He devoted his life to educate peasants like me.
Esteve had a serious, calm, dignified demeanor. Catalans are composed people. But he had a sense of humor. Only once did I see him blow his top, and then he was like a tiger. He spoke English and also Italian—his wife Maria was Italian. He was born in Barcelona in 1866. He planned to study medicine, but when he was fourteen his father died and he had to go to work. He became a printer, a typesetter. In 1891 he met Errico Malatesta at a convention in Milan, and also the woman he was later to marry. During 1892 he toured Spain with Malatesta until the Jerez uprising. Malatesta fled to Portugal and then England. Esteve went into hiding and the same year made his way to the United States.
Starting in late 1892 Esteve edited “El Despertar,” an anarchist journal in Paterson [New Jersey]. Around 1895 he went to Tampa [Florida], where Spaniards from Cuba worked as cigar makers. There was a stipulation in their contract that they be read to while working. Esteve sat on a high stool and read them anarchist literature. He also published a small anarchist paper in Ybor City, next to Tampa. Esteve was warned by a socialist friend that vigilantes were out to hang him, so he hid in his friend’s house for three days, shaved his beard and mustache, and returned to New York.
Esteve began publishing “Cultura Obrera” in 1911 or 1912. He wrote for the paper, set up the type, and did other tasks. He also became the secretary of the IWW [labor union] in New York, in order to serve the many Spanish sailors and dock workers in the city, who needed an organization that was open to them. He was paid ten dollars a month. But he was soon disturbed by the authoritarianism of the IWW and, not wanting to make a public issue of it, quietly resigned.
Esteve, like Malatesta, was an internationalist, and he opposed America’s entry into the war [World War I]. As a result, “Cultura Obrera” was shut down and Esteve, together with Frank Gonzalez, was arrested. The two men were questioned separately, but Gonzalez could hear Esteve’s answers; he spoke intelligently, knew his rights, and was unmoved by threats of deportation. “But you have eight children,” they said. “They are all Americans,” he replied. And he refused to stop propagandizing. “Then you won’t publish any more,” they said. There was no rule of law in those days.
But Esteve was not deported. After four hours in jail he was released, with a 24-hour guard placed at his house. He was out of work, but a Russian anarchist on 14th Street [New York City] gave him a job and persuaded him to cut off his beard and mustache again. In 1921 “Cultura Obrera” resumed publication. Esteve remained the editor until his death in September 1925, at the age of 59, about six weeks after he delivered a speech at Stelton [anarchist colony in New Jersey] (here is a picture). His oldest son was an anarchist, but he died. The others are still alive but aren’t interested.
Spaniards like Esteve began coming to the United States in large numbers during the 1890s. Many settled in port cities, like New York, Boston, and Baltimore, and worked as sailors and dock workers. Spanish seamen were masters of the Port of New York. Over the years many moved inland to the mines and factories of West Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, and took up their former occupations. They were an important element in steel, mining, and metallurgy, as well as in cigarmaking. Of course not all Spaniards were anarchists, but even those who were not tended to be sympathizers. Spanish workers are by nature anarchists; Spaniards joined no other radical groups in any numbers in the US.
At the height of the movement, during the 1920s and 1930s, there were about 2,500 active Spanish anarchists in the United States, as well as about 2,000 sympathizers. The top circulation of “Cultura Prroletaria,” which I edited from the 1930s till it closed in 1952, was 4,000. But we were largely isolated. We had little contact with other anarchist groups, the biggest mistake we ever made in this country. We engaged mainly in propaganda—journals, lectures—and little participation in strikes. We were a small minority wherever we were.
In Spain itself the situation was different. Spain, in fact, was the only nation in the whole world where anarchism was truly a mass movement. I myself went to Spain during the Civil War and met Emma Goldman there. When I returned I wrote about Spain in “Cultura Proletaria” and made speeches to raise money for our comrades. I had done the same a decade earlier in behalf of Sacco and Vanzetti. The movement in Spain has been suppressed, but it will rise again in three or four years. The doors are opening.
In America the movement is dead. Many comrades have died, and after the Second World War many moved to California. They too are dying out. And the younger generation is not interested.
