I recently re-read John Steinbeck’s deeply researched classic historical novel The Grapes of Wrath. I was reminded of a phrase often misattributed to another author, Mark Twain: “History may not repeat itself but it often rhymes.”
It’s the story of families from across the U.S. in the 1930s who became economic migrants in their own country.
The land was wrecked by the over-farming of cotton, and drought turned the spent soil into dust. Crops failed and farmers lost their farms and homes to banks. Communities crumbled, and industrial farming broke the connections between the land and those who loved it.
Hundreds of thousands of people were told to head west where jobs would be abundant. They were not. Resented and ridiculed, they were relegated to makeshift camps along the roads wherever they could find a few days of work. Their labor was exploited as they were forced to compete with each other for day wages that might not feed their families even for that day.
The locals called them “Okies” and saw them as strange, untrustworthy interlopers. Local sheriffs were deployed to violently “move them along.”
It was a story of bitter ironies. Families followed ripening fruit across California and didn’t have enough to eat. The “locals” were themselves the children of migrants who had come to territory formerly occupied by indigenous people, then claimed by Spain, then Mexico, then by the U.S. Small California farmers also faced the loss of their land because the corporations that owned both land and canneries could control wage rates, manipulate prices and bankrupt them.
The story was one of patterns and systems, systems maintained by those with political and economic power that favored the few and failed the many. A story about offering up an identified “other” as the ones to blame. A story of how uncertainty and fear of the unfamiliar can lead people to accept the dehumanization of fellow humans and support state-sponsored violence to remove them.
It was also a story of remarkably resourceful people who redefined and rebuilt community and family wherever they were. They shared what they had and unconditionally cared for each other. They held fast to the faith that the long journey led to something better. In the bleakest of times, they survived because they held on to hope and to their own humanity.
This past weekend, I had the opportunity to see a video of a presentation by author, activist and scholar Angela Y. Davis, titled the same as one of her books: Freedom Is A Constant Struggle.
She was asked about how to approach this current time – multiple wars across the globe; climate changes and consequences that are no longer deniable or avoidable; economic and climate migration fueling racialized nationalism and populist political disruption worldwide; the resurgence of state-sponsored and individual hostility and violence directed at people who are Black, immigrant, LGBTQ and others who have been defined as the “other.”
She had answers.
Davis said her longevity had allowed her to see many victories, and to also see how easily it is to become disaffected by battles that have to be fought again and again.
She underscored how important it is that we recognize it as a journey, and we need to be in it for the long run.
She had advice for that journey. Celebrate the victories and the learning they bring. Celebrate the community built that comes back stronger. Honor the pain of the struggle. Hold space to share challenges, collective rebuilding, and collective hope. Remind ourselves that our work matters, that the journey itself matters.
She noted that freedom will be a constant struggle as long as the rights of any human are viewed as something “granted” by another. The peaks and valleys and the cycles of progress followed by backlash are because we are still operating under the same systems.
She emphasized the need to deepen and broaden our thinking beyond our borders to internationalism, and beyond the silos to the intersections.
I have seen the power at those intersections. When I became disabled, my rights and freedom became conditional on laws like the Rehabilitation Act. It passed in 1973 but implementation was delayed until 1977, when several dozen people with disabilities occupied a federal building for 26 days. Their victory was due in no small part to the support of the Oakland chapter of the Black Panthers who brought them food every one of those days.
Davis called us to envision and build the alternative structures that are needed to make freedom and justice achievable without the constant struggle.
She encouraged us to not internalize or give ourselves over to the inhumanity and violence that permeates the economic and political systems in which we currently exist. She reminded us that an important part of the journey is who we become along the way.
Be vigilant, she said. Do not succumb to the amnesia or apathy we are encouraged to adopt. This echoed a quote from her that moved me years ago: “You have to act as if it were possible to radically transform the world. And you have to do it all the time.”
History still repeats and it rhymes too often. The journey is longer and more arduous than it should be. But the trajectory has always been a forward one.
There is work to do to build better systems, locally and nationally. We will do it. Along the way, we will celebrate the victories, learn from the losses, care for each other, expand our vision to see across differences and find solidarity in the struggle. And we will do it over and over again if necessary, for as long it takes, without losing our hope or our humanity.
Beth Langen is co-chair and board member of the Springfield Immigrant Advocacy Network.
This article appears in September 10-16, 2026.
