#newsies strike anniversary

[nycnewsgirl]

It’s that time of year again…happy strike day fansies

[the-sky-the-stars-the-sea]

August 1, 1899

On this day 124 years ago, the newsies and the New York World made a compromise.

After two weeks of striking, after less successes, scabbing leaders, and many getting arrested, the newsies were weary. Yet they refused to give up.

And yet the newspaper companies were weary too. They were losing thousands of dollars because of the low circulation. They decided enough was enough.

The newsies did not get the price of the papers back down to fifty cents per hundred. However, they made a compromise with The World: the price stays at 60 cents per hundred, but the newsies could sell back their unsold papers at full price. The newsies used to have to eat whatever they didn’t sell, but now with this compromise they had the security of knowing that that will never happen again, that they would be fully compensated for their unsold papers.

And so, the newsies did something that no one saw coming from a bunch of kids. They showed the world that kids should not be underestimated.

This was not the first newsies strike, nor was it the last. However, it was the most successful, because of the way they stuck together, and held strong.

And so, here we are, 124 years later, still talking about it.

Here’s to the newsies: the bravest kids New York has ever seen.

Let’s never forget them.

[this-is-ali]

Happy 125th anniversary of the end of the Newsboys' Strike of 1899 to all who celebrate! 🎉🗞️

Those newsies paved the way for so many child-welfare practices across America. (And a damn good musical!) They are my heroes.

.

"Nothing can break us, no one can make us give our rights away!"

[spinningerster]

🗞

[extra-sketch]

The Newsies (happy 125th anniversary to the end of the Newsboys' Strike of 1899)

[make-friends-with-the-rats]

In December of 1899, the halls of 9 Duane Street Lodging House echoed with the voices of newsies. This was the 30th annual holiday feast held for the newsboys and their guests. Kid Blink, among others, gave toasts and speeches, including one entitled "The Strike, When We Licked", no doubt celebrating their successful strike from the summer. The newsies were served a generous feast of turkey, boiled ham, celery, mashed potatoes, turnips, tea, bread and butter, and -- the newsies favorite -- pies.

[sources: 1, 2, 3, 4]

This year, to celebrate the 155th anniversary of the first annual Duane Street holiday feast, I have put together a list of prompts for the first annual Duane Street December. Happy Holidays!

tag: #duane street december

(transcribed list under the cut)

---

NEWSIES Duane Street December

First Snow

Favorite Character

Irving Hall/Medda's Theatre

Holiday Decorations

Family

Kid Blink

Mittens

Boots Arbus

Marbles

Best Friends

Cold Feet

Our Man Denton

Little Newsies

Snowman

Traditions

The Jacobs Family

Warmth

Something Unexpected

Snowball Fight

Jack Kelly

Little Brother

Bad Luck

Dreidel

Patrick's Mother

Turkey and Pie/The Duane Street Dinner

Gift Giving

Improvin' The Truth

Candlelight

Kloppman

Mistletoe

New Years Eve, 1899

[noxexistant]

ai-less whumptober; day three

@ailesswhumptober 3 — shared trauma, survivor’s guilt, “It’s not your fault.” ↳ october, 1899 word count; 1.5k

cw; sibling death, implied alcohol abuse

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Jack thinks about Michael every day of his life. Maybe that's a good thing. He can't imagine the guilt if he didn't. But he also, really, can't imagine being able to…not. The thinking is one thing, but the nightmares are another.

And then there's the reminders.

Jack is all too aware his brother's death had had witnesses, all those boys watching out of the Refuge windows as they'd hopped the carriage, as Michael had slipped — and witnesses talk. Newsies talk, every shoeshine and street rat in New York talks; there ain't much else to do when they're working dawn 'til midnight or locked up behind those barred windows under Snyder's heel. Everyone knows. But it's one of those things most folk don't dare talk about — not when he's Cowboy, not when he's got the mask of being a leader to hide behind. Folk don't mess with him, though it's not the same way they don't mess with Spot Conlon. It's not fear.

They just…like him. Too much to bring up his dead little brother every time the urge might strike, whether they're pissed off with him — Jack thinks about his photograph, silently torn to shreds after he took the money — or they're just curious.

The Delanceys have no such reservations.

"Hey, Kelly," Oscar calls out from a little way down the alleyway Jack had just turned down. "Happy anniversary."

It's not. It's in a couple weeks. But Oscar's never been good with numbers.

"Fuck off, Delancey," he responds.

It's fucking cold. Too cold for October, too cold to be outside all day, but Jack doesn't have a whole lot of choice. He'd sold like shit, the way he always does in that lull between the cold weather starting and Christmas coming in — it's late and he's only just sold his last pape, he just wants to be done. But there Oscar is, leaned against the wall of the alleyway Jack's trying to cut through to get back to the lodging house, cigarette in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He smells like the stuff, but it isn't the sharp, acrid smell of the cheap booze that can usually be found amongst the newsies. It smells good. It looks good.

Oscar grins at him, lopsided. Jack can guess that what's been drained from the bottle has all been drank by him tonight, and his suspicions are confirmed when Oscar brings the bottle to his lips and takes a long, easy drink.

"How long's it been now, eh?" he asks as he draws the bottle away, voice still a little tight as he swallows, utterly casual. "Since Michael. Ten years?"

His tone is lazy, something smug and amused and utterly infuriating in his face. Jack rolls his jaw.

"C'mon, Oscar, get your fingers up. Try an' count it out."

Of all the possible reactions, he isn't expecting Oscar to laugh.

Violence would be expected, normal, but Oscar laughs, the way he usually only does when he's beating someone into the pavement or ruining their day.

It makes something in Jack's gut curl, burning hot and angry.

"Y'know, I really don't get it," he says. "Why you're like this. Why you act like all that time in there was nothin' to you, jus' somethin' to crack jokes about now. I saw you. Every day. Saw you go through Hell with me. An' your little brother."

Oscar takes a slow drag from his cigarette, still sort of smiling around it. One side of his mouth curled up to bare a canine that gets covered when he exhales the smoke into the cold night air.

"Been through worse," he says with a shrug. Takes a swig of his whiskey. "An' clearly I did better in there 'n you did. Got my wee brother out alive an' all."

The noise he makes when Jack throws him into the wall is satisfying, at least. A grunt from deep in his chest as the air is knocked out of him, a dull crack of his head hitting the brick last. His cigarette tumbles to the floor, and Jack takes no small amount of satisfaction in catching it beneath his boot and scraping it hard, mangling it into a spread corpse of tobacco, though Oscar keeps a firm hold on his whiskey.

And then he smiles again, lazier this time.

"You always been jealous."

Jack had seen Morris go through Hell in the Refuge. As much as if not more than Jack himself and Oscar had faced. He'd been tiny when Jack first saw him. A tiny, malnourished little kid who'd clearly been brutalised all his life. For the first few years, Jack had believed Morris to be a lot younger than he is — Michael's age, maybe. Never could've guessed that he's only a few months younger than Jack himself. But Morris was always well looked after by Oscar, regardless of the circumstances in there, or the circumstances of wherever they'd come from. Morris was forever under the protection of his older brother. Oscar, who would start fights with the other boys to wrench their rations from them to give to Morris. Who'd stay awake all night and curl himself around his brother, vicious and protective like a dog, or sit vigil at his bedside to ensure nobody dared come close. Who'd walked out of the Refuge, freshly eighteen, with his hand clasped around his little brother's bony wrist when their uncle had arrived, looking for boys to put to work.

Maybe Jack thinks about them near as much as he thinks about Michael. It's a fact he fucking hates.

He'd compared himself to Oscar at every possible turn as they grew up, confined together, the only other older brother he'd ever known to compare himself to.

He'd wondered, in the wake of Michael's death, if he could've kept him alive, protected him better, if he was only more like Oscar. More vicious, more controlling, more willing to bide his time and take it for as long as he had to until it was over, instead of always having to try and run. Maybe he could've been stronger.

"'M'glad," he says, without. Really thinking about it. Means it, at least. "That you got your brother out."

He's still got Oscar pinned to the wall, leaning his weight against him with hands balled into the worn fabric of his jacket, but finally he forces himself to let go. Staggers a step backwards, skin feeling heavy on his body. Grief feeling heavy on his aching shoulders.

There's a brief stretch of silence. And then Oscar wordlessly holds out the bottle of whiskey between them.

Jack takes it without hesitation, and tips it back to draw a long swig from the bottle. It's good. Rich and warm, burns down his throat right to his empty stomach. Oscar's looking at him.

"You expectin' me to lie to you?" he says, but his voice is softer now. "Tell you it's not your fault?"

Jack shakes his head, and takes another swig, maybe half because he can and half because he's cold. Mostly because he needs it.

"Know it is," he says forcefully. "'Course it's my fault."

It had been October then too, and he knew then how utterly miserable winters in the Refuge were. He'd just wanted to get out before the cold set in, wanted to get him and Michael somewhere they could stay warm. Boys always died during the winter in the refuge. And isn't there a sick irony to that.

"I—" Oscar says suddenly, then stops himself. Swallows, and drops his head back against the brick again, pale eyes looking up at the sky. "Dunno how you kept goin'," he says. "Dunno that I could. 'f Mo…"

Jack swallows too. He can't help but look at Oscar, closer than he usually ever gets to be, something. Sickeningly intimate about the vulnerability in this moment. The older boy looks tired. He looks sad. And then seems to experience his own wave of grief, as if realising in an instant that he's said more than he wanted to — revealed too much, like Jack hasn't already seen everything. Hasn't seen Oscar holding Morris' limp body and screaming. It was just the fact that Morris woke up.

"Fuckin'. Whatever," Oscar mutters. "I gotta get home."

Jack imagines Morris is waiting for him.

It's how it always is, when the two of them are apart. They're just waiting to be reunited, two broken halves of a whole. Oscar goes suddenly, without another word, and Jack watches him walk away with his hands shoved in his pockets, boots crunching. He's still got his own hand around the neck of the bottle that Oscar had left with him. There's still a warmth to it where Oscar had held it.

Jack takes another swig, and starts heading his own way home, trying not to think about Michael waiting for him somewhere.

[yourlegacysnotyourstosee]

Anyways in honor of the Newsie strike anniversary, reminder that the strike was led by the disabled son of Italian immigrants. Reminder that girls were newsies as well. Reminder that MOST newsies were the children of Irish, Italian, or Russian immigrants. Quite a few were not born in America, and english was not their first language. Reminder that they were mostly catholic and jewish at a time when antisemitism and anti-catholicism was the norm. Reminder that many were disabled and homeless and sold papers in order to support their families. These kids were minorities that fought for their rights! Don’t forget that!

[saysflora]

A year after the strike the Newsies throw a roaring party to celebrate. It's a huge success, with delicious food, boisterous games, and alcohol.

Lots of alcohol.

OR: Jack and David both get drunk during the Newsies anniversary party

[swimmingnewsie]

So 10 years ago, I joined the newsies fandom. I don't even remember how I ended up here, but I'm oh so happy that I did. In that fandom, I found myself in a subset of folks who loved Jack and Katherine just as much as I did. @writetheniteaway and @hoshigomi were two really good friends of mine who I'm happy to still keep in contact with to varying degrees to this day. We had a ship full of love, but no ship name that we really liked. (I don't know why we didn't jive with Jatherine, it's been 10 years, things and opinions fade). So these two were far too late working on school work and at some point Katherine Plumber was called a fluffy lamb and a fic of 'lamb cuddles' was requested.

Next day comes around (April 6, 2013) and there is a semi-joking post asking us to all tag our Jack/Katherine fic as lambcuddles. And then we did. And then more people did. And more. And more until even the National Touring Cast called Jack/Katherine 'lambcuddles' (that was a hell of a day, let me tell you).

I love the lamb fam with all my heart and invite all of the Jatherine folks who caught on board with the west endsies/uksies to share in the love with us and the tag.

Happy Anniversary Lambcuddles. To celebrate, here's a small drabble of our favorite cocky-son-of-a- newsboy sneaking into see Katherine well past working hours.

Enjoy!

---

Tap tap

Katherine’s eyes darted from where she was brushing her unruly curls out for the evening towards the dimly lit window. This was the third time she had heard that damned tapping. At first she had figured it was a bird or bug knocking against her window, lost in the muggy summer night; but there it was again.

Tap tap

That’s when she saw two pebbles hit the pane of her window. Who could want her attention this time of night? Carefully, she opened the window looking to see who was below. 

“Well hiya there, sweetheart. Didn’t thinks youse was ever gonna open your window.”

Two stories below, there was Jack Kelly with a cocky grin on his face, eyes beaming up at her.

“Jack Kelly, what are you doing here? “ she called down, trying her best not to shout and blow their cover. “Are you trying to get us caught?!”

It had only been two weeks since the strike had been settled, but Katherine’s father had made it painfully aware of how much he disdained her choice in romantic partner. Their meetings had been limited to daytime walks and stolen kisses in alleyways, far from her father’s prying eyes. It wasn’t easy, but they were managing. 

“I missed ya,” he said impishly, running a hand through his hair. “I ain’t seen ya in days.”

“It’s hardly been 36 hours,” she scoffed, unable to resist her own smile. “I got caught up with work today, I’m sorry.”

“They gives ya anything good?” 

“A piece at the Navy Yard Pier. Not too much to it yet, but it’s better than engagement news at least.” Katherine shrugged her shoulders, turning to give a quick look at her bedroom door. She didn’t hear anyone coming. Carefully, she crawled through her window and out onto the fire escape. “Gave your love to Spot Conlon.”

“Glad someone’s getting my love,” he teased, looking up at her far above. “Just wishin’ it was you instead, Ace.”

“Jack,” she laughed, “it’s late. I’ll give you plenty in the morning, I'm sure.”

Jack wandered over to the base of the fire escape, careful to hide from the windows and any possible on-lookers. “Is that a promise, Plumber?” he asked, tilting his head back with a cheeky grin. 

He really was the most impossible boy.

“For sure.”

[the-sky-the-stars-the-sea]

Happy Strikeversary Everyone!!

This day 124 years ago, the Long Island newsies found out that the wagons bringing them their papes would bring them bundles of nineteen papers instead of twenty—even though they were still paying for twenty. Outraged, when they saw the wagon come that day, they tipped it over, refusing to be cheated out of their papes. This was the first event of the strike.

Word got out to other boroughs, such as Manhattan and Brooklyn. What the Long Island newsies did inspired them all, and motivated them to strike too.

This was the first day of a two week strike.

And it was powerful.

[be-more-chill-evan-hansen]

I think part of what brought back my Newsies hyperfixation was the anniversary of the strike. Anyone who knew me knows that it was such a strong special interest for me. I can tell you the entire timeline from start to end with little details in between. I love it so much.

[ao3feed-newsies]

Get Lost and Let the Good Times Roll

by, SaysFlora by SaysFlora A year after the strike the Newsies throw a roaring party to celebrate. It's a huge success, with delicious food, boisterous games, and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. (OR: Jack and David both get drunk during the Newsies anniversary party) Words: 4014, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Newsies (1992) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Jack Kelly, David Jacobs, Newsies Ensemble Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly Additional Tags: Underage Drinking, one (1) innuendo, Drunken Shenanigans read : https://ift.tt/OM4Jvp5 - September 03, 2023 at 10:25AM

[what-goesaround-comesaround]

Pulitzer @ The Newsies

[crutchie-with-a-y]

on the morning of #strikestrikestrikeday

Me: *wakes up*

Me: *sits straight up in bed*

Me: NOW IS THE TIME TO SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIZE THE DAY

Me: *procedes to apologize to the original strikers while still in bed for making a reference to a show about them which they would not get and then starts to explain the plot of the show and how I know how it's different and similar to actual events because I'm totally an amature

historian*

Me: *gives an emotional speech on how inspiring and incredible the strike and strikers were and how their story impacted me personally and how frustrating it is that they do not get mentioned much in textbooks and how little known the strike is despite its historical immportance*

Me:

Me: I should probably get dressed.

Me: I mean it is dark outisde

Me: I MEAN THE NEWSIES WERE UP AND DRESSED AT LIKE FOUR AM WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME

Me: *gets distracted after putting on newsboy cap and dances around and speaks in a terrible manhattan accent to my walls*

Me: *acts out a day of a newsie who's had a hard life*

Me: *breaks down and tries not to cry thinking about how rough their lives really were*

Me: *opens window and gives another speech of thanks to the strikers thinking maybe they'll hear me from where I imagine they are writing insane headlines in the stars*

Me: *climbs back in bed and reads the wikipedia page on the Newsboy Strike of 1899 for the thousandth time and feels like an expert*

Me: *get's lost in the amazing universe of #strikestrikestrikeday posts*

Me:

Me: *gets passionately motivated to spread the story of the newsies and the strike to everyone on this earth*

Me:

Me:

Me: I love you newsies and strikers.

we all do

[historyofchildhood]

July 18-August 1 1899

To commemorate the Newsboys Strike of 1899 I’ll be trying to post things in relation to the strike, other strikes organized by children, and things relating to child labor and urban life in the industrial era.