My love, thoughts, and prayers go out to Jennifer Hudson and her family. Of young stars in the world, Miss Hudson has taken her stardom with grace and humility. Only America Ferrera has shown a similar character. The tragedy and violence that has characterized Jennifer's family is not unique. Unfortunately, it is the type of violence that visits so many of our black families. Jennifer has the additional burden of having to navigate her grief in public at a time when she should be able to relish a stardom that has been marked by hard work and commitment.
As one artist to another, my love goes out to you. May God grant you peace and understanding and guide your family to rest.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Comedy of Errors
Last week was a pure comedy of errors moment. On Wednesday, I left work to have lunch with my friend Mike. Now, I had been feeling slightly unwell earlier in the day, but it was nothing to blog about. During lunch my slightly unwell feeling exploded into a Linda Blair moment. After the second time my head spun around and I lobbed pho into the porcelain jaws, I decided that I should probably head home for the day.
I had, previous to making the decision to head home, sent a message to my co-worker Chris saying that I was not feeling well but would be back in the office. I followed that up with a text saying that I was going to head home. She never got the text. And thus it began.
On the way home, I lost my cellphone and my ID due to an unzipped side pocket on my travel bag. So was the stage set for an unsuspecting Brandon to find himself at the core of a coast-to-coast electronic manhunt.
Last Thursday morning, I sent an email to the office saying that I was still ill and would not be in. My roommates were gone for work for the day, and so I had only email to use to communicate to the office. Unfortunately, I had left the power cord for my Mac at the office and later that morning when I returned to consciousness to email my boyfriend, I discovered that my Mac was dead. I then tried to plug my old laptop into the DSL line, but it refused to access the Internet (Josh’s friend came to our house and “changed the settings” on the internet and now none of us can get on the internet with our computers via the wireless router and only my Mac is able to access the internet when plugged directly into the modem). I knew that David would probably be losing his mind wondering what was going on with me, but since I had emailed work that morning, I figured that work was peachy keen. Or, to be more precise, I didn’t think about work at all.
I was at home, with the flu, with no phone, and no internet access. For all intents and purposes I was living in the mid-21st century in rural Alabama.
Later that day, around 3:00pm, I heard a pounding on the front door. Since I was snug in my bedroom and half awake, I rolled over, grabbed a pillow, covered my head, and mentally commanded the Jehovah’s Witnesses to go away. If only I had answered the door, I would have found two distraught co-workers. Instead, I slipped into fretful dreams of Kingdom Hall.
I rose occasionally for the rest of the day to vomit, eat something, and pee. I also checked to see if Josh or Tony had come home. Finally, around 9pm, I turned off my light and went to sleep only to be awakened within an hour by the sound of CeCe, my neighbor from across the street, knocking on my door.
“Brandon!”
“What girl, I am asleep.”
“Your co-worker is out here and everyone is looking for you!”
“What are you talking about?”
“No one has heard from you for a day.”
“That is crazy. I will be right out.”
I got out of my bed to find Mervyn, my beloved girl pal from work, and my roommate Tony looking distraught. It turns out that the office never received my text nor my email, and David had called looking for me. Basically, CMJ turned into the Bloodhound Gang detective agency, and I was the mark. Turns out that my loving co-workers, had basically started a chain reaction that reached out and touched most of my friends across the country. People from the Bay to NYC to Atlanta were calling and emailing trying to find out where I had gone.
I have never felt so loved in my life. Today, I received an email from MAC--an amazingly brilliant human being that I can joyously add to my list of powerful female-bodied persons from whom I have learned and will continue to learn much. MAC was not pleased. She was not pleased with my lack of communication, and she was absolutely right. I will most likely, as a result of this situation, lose some of the amazing flexibility that we have at CMJ in terms of working from home or from alternative locations. I think that is fair. What else is fair is the way that MAC goes about discipline. I am not happy to have to have created a situation where discipline is necessary. But I have also never been given a voice in coming up with a solution to a situation that values who I am in toto.
And to all of you that were concerned, that reached out to make sure I was ok, I say to you thank you and I love you.
I had, previous to making the decision to head home, sent a message to my co-worker Chris saying that I was not feeling well but would be back in the office. I followed that up with a text saying that I was going to head home. She never got the text. And thus it began.
On the way home, I lost my cellphone and my ID due to an unzipped side pocket on my travel bag. So was the stage set for an unsuspecting Brandon to find himself at the core of a coast-to-coast electronic manhunt.
Last Thursday morning, I sent an email to the office saying that I was still ill and would not be in. My roommates were gone for work for the day, and so I had only email to use to communicate to the office. Unfortunately, I had left the power cord for my Mac at the office and later that morning when I returned to consciousness to email my boyfriend, I discovered that my Mac was dead. I then tried to plug my old laptop into the DSL line, but it refused to access the Internet (Josh’s friend came to our house and “changed the settings” on the internet and now none of us can get on the internet with our computers via the wireless router and only my Mac is able to access the internet when plugged directly into the modem). I knew that David would probably be losing his mind wondering what was going on with me, but since I had emailed work that morning, I figured that work was peachy keen. Or, to be more precise, I didn’t think about work at all.
I was at home, with the flu, with no phone, and no internet access. For all intents and purposes I was living in the mid-21st century in rural Alabama.
Later that day, around 3:00pm, I heard a pounding on the front door. Since I was snug in my bedroom and half awake, I rolled over, grabbed a pillow, covered my head, and mentally commanded the Jehovah’s Witnesses to go away. If only I had answered the door, I would have found two distraught co-workers. Instead, I slipped into fretful dreams of Kingdom Hall.
I rose occasionally for the rest of the day to vomit, eat something, and pee. I also checked to see if Josh or Tony had come home. Finally, around 9pm, I turned off my light and went to sleep only to be awakened within an hour by the sound of CeCe, my neighbor from across the street, knocking on my door.
“Brandon!”
“What girl, I am asleep.”
“Your co-worker is out here and everyone is looking for you!”
“What are you talking about?”
“No one has heard from you for a day.”
“That is crazy. I will be right out.”
I got out of my bed to find Mervyn, my beloved girl pal from work, and my roommate Tony looking distraught. It turns out that the office never received my text nor my email, and David had called looking for me. Basically, CMJ turned into the Bloodhound Gang detective agency, and I was the mark. Turns out that my loving co-workers, had basically started a chain reaction that reached out and touched most of my friends across the country. People from the Bay to NYC to Atlanta were calling and emailing trying to find out where I had gone.
I have never felt so loved in my life. Today, I received an email from MAC--an amazingly brilliant human being that I can joyously add to my list of powerful female-bodied persons from whom I have learned and will continue to learn much. MAC was not pleased. She was not pleased with my lack of communication, and she was absolutely right. I will most likely, as a result of this situation, lose some of the amazing flexibility that we have at CMJ in terms of working from home or from alternative locations. I think that is fair. What else is fair is the way that MAC goes about discipline. I am not happy to have to have created a situation where discipline is necessary. But I have also never been given a voice in coming up with a solution to a situation that values who I am in toto.
And to all of you that were concerned, that reached out to make sure I was ok, I say to you thank you and I love you.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Crossroads
I feel as if I am standing at a crossroads right now. I have a wonderful man named David Berube. He loves me. He, usually, understands me and honors where I have been. We have had some issues, and once or twice I have been stung pretty deeply, but that happens in relationships.
We don’t live near one another. As a matter of fact, we are almost as far away from each other as we possibly can be and still be in the continental United States. I am in the Bay, and he is in NYC. Based on both of our ways of being, based on being real about how we operate in the world, and being real about distance, we have decided to have an open relationship.
Now, in general, I am a very sexually liberated person….at least I thought I was. But when you throw love in the mix, and then when you add a history that does not include basically any healthy relationships, and then when you add to that a core belief that revolves around abandonment and loss of love, and you have a mix that is crazy making.
Oh did I mention that one of my gifts/curses from having grown up basically getting my ass beaten on a daily basis is that I absolutely know when someone is lying and/or is being less than truthful (even when it is not malicious). So I can probably pinpoint with laser precision accuracy when David is planning on getting some play…and even though it is totally acceptable, even though I know without a doubt he loves all of me, even though I know that it is possible to separate sex from emotions, even though I know that that we are 3,000 miles apart he spends a good chunk of his day thinking about me, communicating with me, and loving me in multiple ways…the thought of him with someone else makes me want to scream. My heart aches when I know it is going on. And this is all my shit that I have to carry, live with, learn to deal with, and learn to let go without making David’s life crazy.
God help me and everyone around me.
One of the ways I deal with what I am feeling is to externalize those thoughts and feelings. Poor David that one of the things my blog readers live for is to read about my internal crazy. To my credit, I am doing the best I can with the history I have. Part of the problem is that I have no patience with myself. When there is a disconnect between what I feel and what I believe, and I am unable to immediately and actually bring what I feel and what I believe into alignment, I go down some pretty self-destructive paths. No one in the world is as self-critical and self-flagellating as I am when I get into this place.
The fact is that I love David Berube. I love him in a stupid way that I did not know was possible for me. I love him for who he is, for what he brings to the world through his art, and for loving me. Does he have flaws, yep. Are things always good? Nope. Do I process like a lesbian and is he such a stereotypically gay man that sometimes I just don’t understand how to work through issues with him. Oh. Goodness. Yes.
In the past, I would have run away so far and so fast you would have that the Flash passed by. But I can’t run from David. He is the first thing I think about in the morning. I dream about him at night. And I think about him before I go to bed. I am standing at a crossroads that I have never seen before. I have no experience to lead me or guide me. I am confused. I am scared. I have a great man by whom I would like to not only do right but do righteously by. All I can keep doing is walking the path and make my choices based on what I feel for him and not the hurt and fear that is so comfortable.
We don’t live near one another. As a matter of fact, we are almost as far away from each other as we possibly can be and still be in the continental United States. I am in the Bay, and he is in NYC. Based on both of our ways of being, based on being real about how we operate in the world, and being real about distance, we have decided to have an open relationship.
Now, in general, I am a very sexually liberated person….at least I thought I was. But when you throw love in the mix, and then when you add a history that does not include basically any healthy relationships, and then when you add to that a core belief that revolves around abandonment and loss of love, and you have a mix that is crazy making.
Oh did I mention that one of my gifts/curses from having grown up basically getting my ass beaten on a daily basis is that I absolutely know when someone is lying and/or is being less than truthful (even when it is not malicious). So I can probably pinpoint with laser precision accuracy when David is planning on getting some play…and even though it is totally acceptable, even though I know without a doubt he loves all of me, even though I know that it is possible to separate sex from emotions, even though I know that that we are 3,000 miles apart he spends a good chunk of his day thinking about me, communicating with me, and loving me in multiple ways…the thought of him with someone else makes me want to scream. My heart aches when I know it is going on. And this is all my shit that I have to carry, live with, learn to deal with, and learn to let go without making David’s life crazy.
God help me and everyone around me.
One of the ways I deal with what I am feeling is to externalize those thoughts and feelings. Poor David that one of the things my blog readers live for is to read about my internal crazy. To my credit, I am doing the best I can with the history I have. Part of the problem is that I have no patience with myself. When there is a disconnect between what I feel and what I believe, and I am unable to immediately and actually bring what I feel and what I believe into alignment, I go down some pretty self-destructive paths. No one in the world is as self-critical and self-flagellating as I am when I get into this place.
The fact is that I love David Berube. I love him in a stupid way that I did not know was possible for me. I love him for who he is, for what he brings to the world through his art, and for loving me. Does he have flaws, yep. Are things always good? Nope. Do I process like a lesbian and is he such a stereotypically gay man that sometimes I just don’t understand how to work through issues with him. Oh. Goodness. Yes.
In the past, I would have run away so far and so fast you would have that the Flash passed by. But I can’t run from David. He is the first thing I think about in the morning. I dream about him at night. And I think about him before I go to bed. I am standing at a crossroads that I have never seen before. I have no experience to lead me or guide me. I am confused. I am scared. I have a great man by whom I would like to not only do right but do righteously by. All I can keep doing is walking the path and make my choices based on what I feel for him and not the hurt and fear that is so comfortable.
Monday, October 6, 2008
The Dow Jones Industrial Average Scares Me
So, for the most part, the DowJones Industrial Average is just a number that I hear about now and again. I might bump into it online or in the newspapers. I might run into it casually as I am listening to NPR. But, in general, Dow and have little to say to each other. We hang out in different circles. In general, I don't think about Mr. Jones. Since I am forced to live in this capitalistic world, I have a passing concern in the health of Mr. Jones, but though there are occasional coughs and sneezes, I have never worried to much about him.
That is until the last week when the Dow needed a 700 billion dollar shock to the heart and is still having wild palpitations. As a matter of fact, Mr. Jones seems to be suffering from the same genetic disease that offed his Grandfather on Black Tuesday, October 29, 1929. The fact that October 29th is fast approaching and the market has already lost more in terms of points in a single day than it ever as in history has me thinking about my life.
As I sit, day by day, watching the imminent collapse of the American financial system and, consequently, the collapse of the world financial system, I have been forced to wonder what I am going to do once the grid goes down and we are forced into hunter gatherer societies and our cities are transformed into concrete and steel jungles. Basically, without a computer, all of my skills are for naught. Basically, I will be forced into being a fisherman, or the oldest profession: ho.
I think I will go with being a ho. The payout is much better and you don't walk around with fish scales stuck to your eyelids all day.
Capitalism is a bitch. Our collective quest for higher profits without any regard for the human experience and justice has led us directly to the doorstop of a very dark dark future. And in that future, you can find me working the corner of Broadway and Telegraph in Downtown Oakland.
That is until the last week when the Dow needed a 700 billion dollar shock to the heart and is still having wild palpitations. As a matter of fact, Mr. Jones seems to be suffering from the same genetic disease that offed his Grandfather on Black Tuesday, October 29, 1929. The fact that October 29th is fast approaching and the market has already lost more in terms of points in a single day than it ever as in history has me thinking about my life.
As I sit, day by day, watching the imminent collapse of the American financial system and, consequently, the collapse of the world financial system, I have been forced to wonder what I am going to do once the grid goes down and we are forced into hunter gatherer societies and our cities are transformed into concrete and steel jungles. Basically, without a computer, all of my skills are for naught. Basically, I will be forced into being a fisherman, or the oldest profession: ho.
I think I will go with being a ho. The payout is much better and you don't walk around with fish scales stuck to your eyelids all day.
Capitalism is a bitch. Our collective quest for higher profits without any regard for the human experience and justice has led us directly to the doorstop of a very dark dark future. And in that future, you can find me working the corner of Broadway and Telegraph in Downtown Oakland.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Something Different
My world is full of conflicting emotions right now. My spirit is heavy with the loss of my cousin. At the same time, my feelings around my relationship with David have me, at times, walking on clouds. The capability of the human psyche and spirit to process and feel a breadth of emotions at the same time is not only amazing it is terrifying.
I can honestly say that in this current relationship, I feel as if I have a friend. Our relationship started in a very new millenium way. We met via Facebook. My friend Bryan from Minneapolis e-introduced us. We started by talking about art, our lives, and sex. Oh yes there was much of that. After a while, it seemed that there was a mutual respect and a mutual desire for something more than what one typically finds in a relationship just moving through the world. There is an intentionality to our relationship that is reflective of the intentionality of my relationships with some of my best friends. From the beginning we have more or less communicated truthfully and honestly (there have been some stumbling blocks on both sides). Our relationship was one that necessarily, because of distance and our mode of meeting, was based on an psycho-emotional exploration.
Meeting David for the first time was one of the oddest experiences of my life.
When he walked into the airport in Minneapolis, his body was a stranger. I mean...I had "seen" his body, but I knew his mind. The first trip was as much about figuring out how we interacted to figuring out the connection between his mind and body. When he left after his first trip to see me, we both had tears in our eyes.
This last trip was a scary, amazing, challenging, and ultimately confirmed for me that I had not only made a new friend but also a great lover and someone that I truly want to see thrive and grow and achieve his dreams. And I know that he feels the same way about me. I mean I fundamentally know this in a way that I have not known in the past or not allowed myself to believe.
There is a lot to still figure out. The physical distance is not as important a factor for me. That can be dealt with in time and with planning. We have an open relationship, which, I think, is going to need more discussion and negotiation and patience with each other as we figure out how that is actually going to work for us. And, frankly, loving someone deeply and in a way that is about him as much as it is about me, is not something I am used to doing. Kjersten used to call me an IRA (I require attention), and I still do. But I also require that the universe bring good things to a good man that has come into my life, I hope, for good.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Seeing Frida
This is the poem I wrote for David for his birthday. It was inspired by a visit today to the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.
Seeing Frida
For David Berube for his birthday y para amor.
In the belly of Frida
I hear an echo of the first time
You said “I love you.”
Little nips (piquetas) into my chest
Those three words changed everything
Like Frida
I sat beside myself
My heart moved outward floating in the air
Connecting body and spirit by fragile veins
You my Diego Rivera
Standing tall beside me
Holding my hand
The veins pierce my throat
Pounding
I find it hard to breathe with you there
It’s surreal surrounded by her self-portraits
I see myself in her
She found it hard to believe in love
Or believe that love
Could twist and turn and arch like the mistress
In Diego’s arms
Like Frida
I pour out through my eyes the memory of that first I love you
My cock hardening
My breath catching
Hoping that the lust I have seen in you for others
Will, from time to time, eclipse I love yous of the mind
Paint me I love yous of the body
On my canvas
On my all too willing brush
It remembers the first taste of your palette
Soft, wet shadings as I nervously prepared for the first stroke
Laying in your arms my heart cracked
Little nips torn out by honesty
Little nips that felt like a pole pushing through me
Like Frida
Laying in traction
Not knowing the depth and impact
Until attempting to rise
Until attempting to paint again
In the end Frida and Diego stood side by side
As they painted
And here surrounded by Frida,
I can see the ghost of Diego’s love in her eyes.
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-23 September 2008
-Museum of Modern Art, San Francisco, California
Seeing Frida
For David Berube for his birthday y para amor.
In the belly of Frida
I hear an echo of the first time
You said “I love you.”
Little nips (piquetas) into my chest
Those three words changed everything
Like Frida
I sat beside myself
My heart moved outward floating in the air
Connecting body and spirit by fragile veins
You my Diego Rivera
Standing tall beside me
Holding my hand
The veins pierce my throat
Pounding
I find it hard to breathe with you there
It’s surreal surrounded by her self-portraits
I see myself in her
She found it hard to believe in love
Or believe that love
Could twist and turn and arch like the mistress
In Diego’s arms
Like Frida
I pour out through my eyes the memory of that first I love you
My cock hardening
My breath catching
Hoping that the lust I have seen in you for others
Will, from time to time, eclipse I love yous of the mind
Paint me I love yous of the body
On my canvas
On my all too willing brush
It remembers the first taste of your palette
Soft, wet shadings as I nervously prepared for the first stroke
Laying in your arms my heart cracked
Little nips torn out by honesty
Little nips that felt like a pole pushing through me
Like Frida
Laying in traction
Not knowing the depth and impact
Until attempting to rise
Until attempting to paint again
In the end Frida and Diego stood side by side
As they painted
And here surrounded by Frida,
I can see the ghost of Diego’s love in her eyes.
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-23 September 2008
-Museum of Modern Art, San Francisco, California
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Avenue of the Giants
Avenue of the Giants
For David Berube
My spirit sings the song of the redwoods
Cracked notes like deep red bark that has seen years that stretch
Reaching, straining/splitting meaning
Giving depth and shading to every whisper every sighing of the wind
Photosynthesizing and manufacturing interpretations
Warped by grooves and trenches carved deep under the surface
By momentary vines
Bold enough to climb the branches
Brave experiences knotted into the warp of its being
Deep rooting parasites
Leafy green masking diabolical intent
They live and breathe the life of the redwoods
Davidian warriors they fell giants
Lay low red hearts that beat with the rhythm of centuries
Bore holes into helpless skin
Digesting flesh reasoning that in the end
Even the greatest fall
In the end even the powerful find the grave
And so the least of the least of these
strangle possibility
The powerless reaching for their only perceived choice
Consuming that which sustains them
Not knowing that the redwoods
Want only to live and grow
Willing to branch and change
Willing to reach roots into circumstance and dig deeper
Reaching beyond and behind
Reaching under and through
Reaching until breaking to a subsoil understanding
That on the other side of struggle
Is living.
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-19 September 2008
-Big Sur, California
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Cousin Jimmy Final Chapter
Yesterday during the day I called my Aunt Char to check in on Jimmy. She told me that the family had decided to stop treatment and to let him move on. On the call she said that it would be days at most. It was less than five hours. At 8:20pm last night, James Wakefield, my cuz, my friend, my family left this world for whatever comes next.
My Aunt Char relayed to me that my Aunt Susie and Uncle Joe and Jim's brothers are extremely angry. I know the feeling. I have rarely felt powerless in my life. No matter what the circumstance or situation, I generally find that I have some choice. But in this, there was no choice. Jim fought and lost. And we all, from nearby or far away, could only hope and pray. Old folks say that "God always answers prayers, but sometimes the answer is no." And this time it was one hell of a no.
Plain and simple I want Jimmy back. I want to hang out with him while he makes fun my sexuality while I make fun of the fact that he was white as a snow. I want to hang out with my cousin that taught me how to ride a bike. My cousin that I stayed up late drinking with in Aunt Char's basement. I want back my cousin because he got me...we were cut from the same cloth....well...at least the same fabric.
Yesterday I had a great lunch with David. Thank GOD David is visiting right now. But, soon after lunch, while sitting at my desk, I became so overwhelmed with such a horrible feeling that I threw up. My spirit knew that something was going to happen...when I was working for LIberty Tree, I took a test that details your strongest attributes....at the top of my list was empathy...yesterday, I wanted to rip out every feeling in my body and the nerve endings along with them.
Jim decided that he did not want a funeral. The family is going to respect his wishes. There is going to be a dinner in Beloit for folks that knew Jim. There will be a gathering for family in Duluth at some point after that. I have no idea what I am going to say to my Aunt and Uncle. Any outrage, or grief, or pain, or anger that I have they can match a thousand times over.
Last night I even called my Dad. I don't think I have ever called my Dad for emotional support. But last night, I remembered that he lost his Mother to leukemia as well. She was only a year older than Jim. Dad answered the phone. And it was what I needed...or at least a part of it. The next few days are going to be rough. But I am trying to remind myself to do what I would want done....to remember Jim, to celebrate his life, and to make sure that his work is not forgotten.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
What Is White Privilege?
Hey folks:
As much as possible, I try and do only original content on my page. But sometimes, as with Rocki's letter and this blog post, there shit that needs circulating. The following is one of those things.
This is Your Nation on White Privilege
By Tim Wise / September 13, 2008
For those who still can’t grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.
White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because “every family has challenges,” even as black and Latino families with similar “challenges” are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.
White privilege is when you can call yourself a “fuckin’ redneck,” like Bristol Palin’s boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll “kick their fuckin' ass,” and talk about how you like to “shoot shit” for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.
White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.
White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don’t all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you’re “untested.”
White privilege is being able to say that you support the words “under God” in the pledge of allegiance because “if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it’s good enough for me,” and not be immediately disqualified from holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the “under God” part wasn’t added until the 1950s--while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.
White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.
White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto was “Alaska first,” and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she’s being disrespectful.
White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor--and people think you’re being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college--you’re somehow being mean, or even sexist.
White privilege is being able to convince white women who don’t even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a “second look.”
White privilege is being able to fire people who didn’t support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.
White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God’s punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you’re just a good church-going Christian, but if you’re black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you’re an extremist who probably hates America.
White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a “trick question,” while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O’Reilly means you’re dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.
White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it a “light” burden.
And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren’t sure about that whole “change” thing. Ya know, it’s just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain…
White privilege is, in short, the problem.
Tim Wise is the author of White Like Me: Reflections on Race from a Privileged Son, and Affirmative Action: Racial Preference in Black and White. He has contributed essays to seventeen books, and is one of several persons featured in White Men Challenging Racism: Thirty-Five Personal Stories, from Duke University Press. A collection of his essays, Speaking Treason Fluently: Anti-Racist Reflections From an Angry White Male, will be released in fall 2008.
As much as possible, I try and do only original content on my page. But sometimes, as with Rocki's letter and this blog post, there shit that needs circulating. The following is one of those things.
This is Your Nation on White Privilege
By Tim Wise / September 13, 2008
For those who still can’t grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.
White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because “every family has challenges,” even as black and Latino families with similar “challenges” are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.
White privilege is when you can call yourself a “fuckin’ redneck,” like Bristol Palin’s boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll “kick their fuckin' ass,” and talk about how you like to “shoot shit” for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.
White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.
White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don’t all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you’re “untested.”
White privilege is being able to say that you support the words “under God” in the pledge of allegiance because “if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it’s good enough for me,” and not be immediately disqualified from holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the “under God” part wasn’t added until the 1950s--while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.
White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.
White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto was “Alaska first,” and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she’s being disrespectful.
White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor--and people think you’re being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college--you’re somehow being mean, or even sexist.
White privilege is being able to convince white women who don’t even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a “second look.”
White privilege is being able to fire people who didn’t support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.
White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God’s punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you’re just a good church-going Christian, but if you’re black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you’re an extremist who probably hates America.
White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a “trick question,” while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O’Reilly means you’re dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.
White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it a “light” burden.
And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren’t sure about that whole “change” thing. Ya know, it’s just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain…
White privilege is, in short, the problem.
Tim Wise is the author of White Like Me: Reflections on Race from a Privileged Son, and Affirmative Action: Racial Preference in Black and White. He has contributed essays to seventeen books, and is one of several persons featured in White Men Challenging Racism: Thirty-Five Personal Stories, from Duke University Press. A collection of his essays, Speaking Treason Fluently: Anti-Racist Reflections From an Angry White Male, will be released in fall 2008.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
An Open Letter to the HRC from Rocki Simoes
NOTE: I got this emailed letter today from my friend Rocki Simoes in Minneapolis. Rocki is one of the most brilliant, sweet, and caring people I know. She is founder of the Host Home program, and she has committed her professional career to making sure that queer homeless youth have safe places to live and are able to celebrate who they are while healing from where they have been. Thank you Rocki for your loving work and your dedication to moving us all forward together. I love you. I miss you.
Hello,
As many of you know, the GLBT Host Home Program received the Brian Coyle Leadership Award from the Human Rights Campaign (HRC). That award will be given at HRC's annual gala dinner on Sept. 13th. I am proud that HHP is being honored, and firmly believe that it and the community that stands behind it deserve recognition. There will be several HHP supporters there to receive the award.
I want to share with you an open letter (see below) I wrote to HRC that expresses my feelings and thoughts about this award and also explains why I will not be at the dinner on Sept. 13th. Feel free to share it with others and feel free to let me know what you think.
Sorry if you get this more than once!
Thank you so much,
Rocki
Raquel (Rocki) Simões, MSW, LISW
GLBT Host Home Program Manager
Avenues for Homeless Youth
1708 Oak Park Avenue N.
Minneapolis, MN 55411
(612) 522-1690
www.avenuesforyouth.org
An Open Letter to HRC
Dear Joe Solmonese and HRC Twin Cities Board of Governors,
I want to thank you for honoring the GLBT Host Home Program of Avenues for Homeless Youth with the Brian Coyle Leadership Award. I am proud of the GLBT Host Home Program and the large community that stands behind it - a community truly deserving of recognition and accolades. Thank you for wanting to put the spotlight on us. I especially want to thank Brian Gilligan for nominating our program and for being so engaged in conversations about where we go from here.
I want to share some of my thoughts and feelings regarding the Human Rights Campaign and movement building. I send this with the hope it invites an opportunity for further dialogue and for community building. Though there is excitement about receiving this award, I have also been having many conversations about how complicated this moment is. This award is personally and professionally difficult for me, and for many in the GLBT community. I cannot speak for the GLBT Host Home Program and all of its youth, hosts, volunteers and supporters on this, but I do want to let you know a bit about what I am thinking and struggling with.
In the past, I have felt that HRC has not represented me or most of my friends, colleagues and community. It has seemed that HRC has used a narrow lens from which to identify queer 'issues', a lens which rarely took in racial and economic justice. When I say “community,” I am including the youth that the GLBT Host Home Program serves, most of whom are of color and many of whom are trans-identified. I was very angry, though not surprised, that HRC decided to support an ENDA bill that was not inclusive of gender identity and expression. No matter how HRC politically and strategically justifies its decision, choosing to exclude a huge part of our community just seems so, well, wrong. I am not the most strategically savvy person around (far from it), but it has been very clear how much pain and divisiveness this decision has created in our community. I am not at all sure that a legal gain is worth a deliberately painful and problematic process. In my opinion, how we go about fighting for justice is as important, if not more, than what we get at the end.
I write this public letter as an effort to do some constructive organizing and to respectfully recognize the pain and disappointment many feel about HRC. My sincere hope is that HRC’s choice to honor this program is a sign that points to a shift in how it does organizing, a shift that is aligned with what the GLBT Host Home Program believes in and strives for - social justice and social change, for all.
Supporters of the GLBT Host Home Program, such as hosts and youth, will attend the event on September 13 to accept the award with great appreciation for the opportunity it gives us to promote the program and highlight the problem of queer youth homelessness. I am not able to attend, as I will be joining other community members at the Left Out Party, an event sponsored by the Minnesota Gender Advocates, supporting a fully inclusive ENDA.
Thank you for considering my comments and for recognizing the GLBT Host Home Program with the Brian Coyle Award. I look forward to further discussion with you.
Sincerely,
Raquel (Rocki) Simões
GLBT Host Home Program Manager, Avenues for Homeless Youth
Hello,
As many of you know, the GLBT Host Home Program received the Brian Coyle Leadership Award from the Human Rights Campaign (HRC). That award will be given at HRC's annual gala dinner on Sept. 13th. I am proud that HHP is being honored, and firmly believe that it and the community that stands behind it deserve recognition. There will be several HHP supporters there to receive the award.
I want to share with you an open letter (see below) I wrote to HRC that expresses my feelings and thoughts about this award and also explains why I will not be at the dinner on Sept. 13th. Feel free to share it with others and feel free to let me know what you think.
Sorry if you get this more than once!
Thank you so much,
Rocki
Raquel (Rocki) Simões, MSW, LISW
GLBT Host Home Program Manager
Avenues for Homeless Youth
1708 Oak Park Avenue N.
Minneapolis, MN 55411
(612) 522-1690
www.avenuesforyouth.org
An Open Letter to HRC
Dear Joe Solmonese and HRC Twin Cities Board of Governors,
I want to thank you for honoring the GLBT Host Home Program of Avenues for Homeless Youth with the Brian Coyle Leadership Award. I am proud of the GLBT Host Home Program and the large community that stands behind it - a community truly deserving of recognition and accolades. Thank you for wanting to put the spotlight on us. I especially want to thank Brian Gilligan for nominating our program and for being so engaged in conversations about where we go from here.
I want to share some of my thoughts and feelings regarding the Human Rights Campaign and movement building. I send this with the hope it invites an opportunity for further dialogue and for community building. Though there is excitement about receiving this award, I have also been having many conversations about how complicated this moment is. This award is personally and professionally difficult for me, and for many in the GLBT community. I cannot speak for the GLBT Host Home Program and all of its youth, hosts, volunteers and supporters on this, but I do want to let you know a bit about what I am thinking and struggling with.
In the past, I have felt that HRC has not represented me or most of my friends, colleagues and community. It has seemed that HRC has used a narrow lens from which to identify queer 'issues', a lens which rarely took in racial and economic justice. When I say “community,” I am including the youth that the GLBT Host Home Program serves, most of whom are of color and many of whom are trans-identified. I was very angry, though not surprised, that HRC decided to support an ENDA bill that was not inclusive of gender identity and expression. No matter how HRC politically and strategically justifies its decision, choosing to exclude a huge part of our community just seems so, well, wrong. I am not the most strategically savvy person around (far from it), but it has been very clear how much pain and divisiveness this decision has created in our community. I am not at all sure that a legal gain is worth a deliberately painful and problematic process. In my opinion, how we go about fighting for justice is as important, if not more, than what we get at the end.
I write this public letter as an effort to do some constructive organizing and to respectfully recognize the pain and disappointment many feel about HRC. My sincere hope is that HRC’s choice to honor this program is a sign that points to a shift in how it does organizing, a shift that is aligned with what the GLBT Host Home Program believes in and strives for - social justice and social change, for all.
Supporters of the GLBT Host Home Program, such as hosts and youth, will attend the event on September 13 to accept the award with great appreciation for the opportunity it gives us to promote the program and highlight the problem of queer youth homelessness. I am not able to attend, as I will be joining other community members at the Left Out Party, an event sponsored by the Minnesota Gender Advocates, supporting a fully inclusive ENDA.
Thank you for considering my comments and for recognizing the GLBT Host Home Program with the Brian Coyle Award. I look forward to further discussion with you.
Sincerely,
Raquel (Rocki) Simões
GLBT Host Home Program Manager, Avenues for Homeless Youth
Sunday, September 7, 2008
The FCC Is Coming
So, two weeks ago tomorrow I started working for the Center for Media Justice. It is a kick ass organization that connects media reform and media justice to racial and economic justice. My position is the National Media Justice Organizer. Basically, I am run the national coalition, MAG-Net, which is coordinated by CMJ and ultimately, my role is to be the go to person for media justice policy. And, my colleague and boss is consciously trying to step back some within the organization and part of my job is to fill some of those national spokesperson spaces that she has previously occupied.
Now, I was very clear when I started my job that I had a strong policy background but that I did not have a strong background in media policy. I even asked for a packet of materials on media policy to be sent to me in advance of starting the job, so I could start doing some solo learning. Unfortunately, because of the transitions that were taking place before I came on board that did not happen. So, in the last two weeks, I have read hundreds of papers, notes, minutes, and articles on the policy issues with which we work. I have had, already, half a dozen meetings and as many again this week. I am just starting to get a handle on some of the most pressing media justice issues on the table right now...the primary issue of concern being the switch to Digital Television and the lack of outreach and support to low-income, fixed income, and disabled folks in the U.S. that rely on over-the-air signals for their information and news. While I have had a very solid crash course regarding the issues around DTV Transition, and I am just beginning to learn about "white spaces" and how that ties into the launch of DTV, I was neither wishing nor hoping, two weeks and a couple of days into the gig, to have to deal with a visit to the bay of the FCC!
Now in terms of the policy around which I work, it would be as if I worked around defense policy and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff showed up on your third day of work. This week, I will spend time at several FCC hearings in various communities on the transition. Thank GOD for Eloise Chen of Media Alliance. She has been the primary organizer of the various events and has deepened my understanding of the issues we are talking about. The last thing I want to do, as the national organizer for what is really the go to organization for outside the DC Beltway media justice and reform work, stand up in front of Commission Edelstein and have him realize that I don't know what the hell I am talking about.
I am loving my new job. My co-workers are a riot. My boss is no joke (she has jokes but homey DEFINITELY don't play that), and I have mad respect for her. This is an awesome place for me to grow and expand, and I look forward to it...I am even looking forward to the FCC visit...though I would have preferred if they could have come....say...next September.
Now, I was very clear when I started my job that I had a strong policy background but that I did not have a strong background in media policy. I even asked for a packet of materials on media policy to be sent to me in advance of starting the job, so I could start doing some solo learning. Unfortunately, because of the transitions that were taking place before I came on board that did not happen. So, in the last two weeks, I have read hundreds of papers, notes, minutes, and articles on the policy issues with which we work. I have had, already, half a dozen meetings and as many again this week. I am just starting to get a handle on some of the most pressing media justice issues on the table right now...the primary issue of concern being the switch to Digital Television and the lack of outreach and support to low-income, fixed income, and disabled folks in the U.S. that rely on over-the-air signals for their information and news. While I have had a very solid crash course regarding the issues around DTV Transition, and I am just beginning to learn about "white spaces" and how that ties into the launch of DTV, I was neither wishing nor hoping, two weeks and a couple of days into the gig, to have to deal with a visit to the bay of the FCC!
Now in terms of the policy around which I work, it would be as if I worked around defense policy and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff showed up on your third day of work. This week, I will spend time at several FCC hearings in various communities on the transition. Thank GOD for Eloise Chen of Media Alliance. She has been the primary organizer of the various events and has deepened my understanding of the issues we are talking about. The last thing I want to do, as the national organizer for what is really the go to organization for outside the DC Beltway media justice and reform work, stand up in front of Commission Edelstein and have him realize that I don't know what the hell I am talking about.
I am loving my new job. My co-workers are a riot. My boss is no joke (she has jokes but homey DEFINITELY don't play that), and I have mad respect for her. This is an awesome place for me to grow and expand, and I look forward to it...I am even looking forward to the FCC visit...though I would have preferred if they could have come....say...next September.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Sarah Palin aka Satana Queen of Darkness
I just finished watching Palin's acceptance speech last night. Thank you YouTube. Let me begin by saying that the woman is smooth as shit and can deliver snappy one liners with a flair that would make Richard Pryor proud. But the more she spoke, the more I wanted to find a hammer...one of those big ass mallets with a five pound rubber head...and hit that woman in the back of the throat.
I do not advocate violence against women. Let me be clear about that. But the impulse was still there.
Instead of talking about what she brings to the ticket (besides being a hockey Mom that surely does not believe in population control) or policies that she and McCain would champion...she spent her entire speech throwing zingers at Obama. At first, I found her amusing...when she made the joke that the only difference between hockey moms and bulldogs is lipstick, I laughed out loud in agreement. But when she said the after Obama finished "parting the waters and healing the world..." comment I found her not only not amusing but a iconoclastic representation of walking irony. As she railed against Obama's experience as a community organizer, she failed to recognize that the only reason she stood on that platform as McCain's running mate is that for nearly a hundred years WOMEN organizers across this country from Seneca Falls to the streets of Oakland organized for the right to vote and concurrently the right of women to hold public office. This world and this country most certainly needs an organizer.
As she closed her statements, she brought up the fact that McCain was a prisoner of war. As a person who has two siblings that have fought multiple tours of duty in the current war, I understand the weight of war on a family. But, as my colleague Oshen said, "I am a prisoner of war. I live in East Oakland." For those of us that wear brown, black, yellow, and red skins, we are and have been in a constant state of war and captivity for five hundred years.
It was amazing to me that Palin could stand in a nearly all white room and claim to be on a ticket that is working for the people and the workers of this country. It was astounding to me that she could stand in front of a room and tell bold faced lies directly to us with absolutely no remorse and without a blink of an eye.
I understand that McCain is afraid. He should be. He is going to lose this race. It is obvious from his running mate selection that he does not believe that victory is achievable. And I guess it is asking the man too much to go out with some grace. Instead, he has chosen to make this campaign about a distorted fearful reality. Republicans have used fear as a tactic for years. It is time we stood up and organized folks so that they understand that fear will not win the day on November 4th.
I do not advocate violence against women. Let me be clear about that. But the impulse was still there.
Instead of talking about what she brings to the ticket (besides being a hockey Mom that surely does not believe in population control) or policies that she and McCain would champion...she spent her entire speech throwing zingers at Obama. At first, I found her amusing...when she made the joke that the only difference between hockey moms and bulldogs is lipstick, I laughed out loud in agreement. But when she said the after Obama finished "parting the waters and healing the world..." comment I found her not only not amusing but a iconoclastic representation of walking irony. As she railed against Obama's experience as a community organizer, she failed to recognize that the only reason she stood on that platform as McCain's running mate is that for nearly a hundred years WOMEN organizers across this country from Seneca Falls to the streets of Oakland organized for the right to vote and concurrently the right of women to hold public office. This world and this country most certainly needs an organizer.
As she closed her statements, she brought up the fact that McCain was a prisoner of war. As a person who has two siblings that have fought multiple tours of duty in the current war, I understand the weight of war on a family. But, as my colleague Oshen said, "I am a prisoner of war. I live in East Oakland." For those of us that wear brown, black, yellow, and red skins, we are and have been in a constant state of war and captivity for five hundred years.
It was amazing to me that Palin could stand in a nearly all white room and claim to be on a ticket that is working for the people and the workers of this country. It was astounding to me that she could stand in front of a room and tell bold faced lies directly to us with absolutely no remorse and without a blink of an eye.
I understand that McCain is afraid. He should be. He is going to lose this race. It is obvious from his running mate selection that he does not believe that victory is achievable. And I guess it is asking the man too much to go out with some grace. Instead, he has chosen to make this campaign about a distorted fearful reality. Republicans have used fear as a tactic for years. It is time we stood up and organized folks so that they understand that fear will not win the day on November 4th.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Obama: The Word on the Street
In the last few weeks I have seen at least half a dozen black folks wearing Obama t-shirts with his face on them. Today at the barbershop the talk was a street level analysis of McCain's desperation choice for running mate Governor Palin (R-AK). Outside of the bagel shop, a few moments later, two people were standing waiting for the street light to change and discussing Obama's acceptance speech from last night.
I am a radical individual. Most of my friends have a great radical analysis. All of us know that Obama, as an institutional candidate, has little chance of truly altering the fundamental fabric of U.S. society but ANY organizer that has any clue as to how social movements move forward must know and realize that right now there is a ground swell of massive proportions the likes of which have not been seen since the Civil Rights and Power to the People movements of the 60s and 70s. I may be only 30 (31 on Sunday), but I have now been politically tuned in and cognizant of five presidential races. No race in my lifetime has ever had the weight, importance, and on the street impact of the race between Obama and McCain.
I am not ashamed to say that last night, when Obama said the words, " I accept the nomination for the President of the United States," I had tears in my eyes. I will repeat what I wrote before, the fact that it was a person that looks like me, even though I know that fundamentally at an early point our politics depart radically from one another's, is for me, the great-great grandchild of slaves, a fundamental affirmation that yes, indeed, we can.
Last night I stared history in the face, and the face looked like mine. Now the challenge is to capture the spirit on the street and channel it into the kind of work that must happen to fundamentally address the systems of oppression that keep our people poor, beaten, hurting, and dying. This is another step that was begun in a march that started the day that Columbus first put his foot down in America, when the first indigenous person fought back and killed the first colonizer, our struggle continues. It is for us to recognize the power of this moment and its limitations, but to dismiss this moment, particularly by radical folks, is not only a mistake but fails to honor the hope that I have seen in the faces of those that, for most of my life, have had little to hope for.
I am a radical individual. Most of my friends have a great radical analysis. All of us know that Obama, as an institutional candidate, has little chance of truly altering the fundamental fabric of U.S. society but ANY organizer that has any clue as to how social movements move forward must know and realize that right now there is a ground swell of massive proportions the likes of which have not been seen since the Civil Rights and Power to the People movements of the 60s and 70s. I may be only 30 (31 on Sunday), but I have now been politically tuned in and cognizant of five presidential races. No race in my lifetime has ever had the weight, importance, and on the street impact of the race between Obama and McCain.
I am not ashamed to say that last night, when Obama said the words, " I accept the nomination for the President of the United States," I had tears in my eyes. I will repeat what I wrote before, the fact that it was a person that looks like me, even though I know that fundamentally at an early point our politics depart radically from one another's, is for me, the great-great grandchild of slaves, a fundamental affirmation that yes, indeed, we can.
Last night I stared history in the face, and the face looked like mine. Now the challenge is to capture the spirit on the street and channel it into the kind of work that must happen to fundamentally address the systems of oppression that keep our people poor, beaten, hurting, and dying. This is another step that was begun in a march that started the day that Columbus first put his foot down in America, when the first indigenous person fought back and killed the first colonizer, our struggle continues. It is for us to recognize the power of this moment and its limitations, but to dismiss this moment, particularly by radical folks, is not only a mistake but fails to honor the hope that I have seen in the faces of those that, for most of my life, have had little to hope for.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Cousin Jimmy III
Mom called tonight. Jimmy has been given two weeks to live if he does not continue chemo. He has two months to live if he does. The cancer has spread to his heart and to his lungs. My Mom asked me all of the questions that I poured out in my previous blogs. I couldn't give her any answers. I don't have any answers.
What do you do when death is staring you in the face? It is one thing to lose someone unexpectedly. My Grandma, bless her, is over 80, if she passed away I would be sad, but she is an elder, and it would not be a surprise. Jimmy is 29 years old. He is a good man. I saw him this summer when he was in remission. He looked like he was going to kick this thing in the ass. And now, less than two months later, the cancer is not only back, but he is going to die. What is my Aunt Susie going to do? What about Uncle Joe? And his older brother Joey? His identical twin Ed?
When I was growing up, the best thing my Mom could say to me was that Aunt Susie and Uncle Joe were going to drive up from Beloit to Duluth and would be at Grandma's house. No matter what was going on in my life, that would make me happier than I could imagine. Jimmy, Eddie, my brother Jason, and I were inseparable during the summers and at holiday time. I can't remember if it was Jim or Ed but I learned to ride a bike on one of their bikes. As a matter of fact, I wasn't able to stop until I slammed into my Grandparent's garage door.
Growing up I would get so angry, because whenever my Mom or I would talk about an achievement I had made, my grandma would counter with Eddie or Jimmy did this or that. I thought my Grandmother only loved them. Until, I found out, that she did the same thing to them but with me. If Aunt Susie would say, Jimmy won this or that award, my Granny would say...ahh but Billy did this or that.
I can't cry right now. I started to, but I can't. Not this time. Not while he is still alive.
What do you do when death is staring you in the face? It is one thing to lose someone unexpectedly. My Grandma, bless her, is over 80, if she passed away I would be sad, but she is an elder, and it would not be a surprise. Jimmy is 29 years old. He is a good man. I saw him this summer when he was in remission. He looked like he was going to kick this thing in the ass. And now, less than two months later, the cancer is not only back, but he is going to die. What is my Aunt Susie going to do? What about Uncle Joe? And his older brother Joey? His identical twin Ed?
When I was growing up, the best thing my Mom could say to me was that Aunt Susie and Uncle Joe were going to drive up from Beloit to Duluth and would be at Grandma's house. No matter what was going on in my life, that would make me happier than I could imagine. Jimmy, Eddie, my brother Jason, and I were inseparable during the summers and at holiday time. I can't remember if it was Jim or Ed but I learned to ride a bike on one of their bikes. As a matter of fact, I wasn't able to stop until I slammed into my Grandparent's garage door.
Growing up I would get so angry, because whenever my Mom or I would talk about an achievement I had made, my grandma would counter with Eddie or Jimmy did this or that. I thought my Grandmother only loved them. Until, I found out, that she did the same thing to them but with me. If Aunt Susie would say, Jimmy won this or that award, my Granny would say...ahh but Billy did this or that.
I can't cry right now. I started to, but I can't. Not this time. Not while he is still alive.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Hillary Clinton
Once upon a time I loved Hillary Clinton. Then she ran for President and turned into the Wicked Witch of the Northeast. After tonight's speech, I love her again. I am wholeheartedly behind Obama. But Hillary would have been a tough as nails president.
Assassination?
So this morning, I was putting myself through the quasi-torture of a new exercise machine at the gym. It is a stair climber and eliptical machine combined. For those of you that have seen the Dark Crystal (or committed it to memory as have I), then to give you a proper mental imagine, the machine looks like a land strider aka the giant bunnies with stilt legs. As I watching the news while dreaming of riding across the land to find the shard, I noticed that the Colorado police had picked up a white dude that had a car full of guns, drugs, and a bullet proof vest. He was cute until he opened his mouth, when I noticed the nasty teeth and the even nastier shit flying off his tongue.
As to be expected he and his friend Adolph (enough said) had decided to kill Barack Obama because, well, nigras ain't supposed to be in public office.
Now...please...white people...if you want to be taken seriously please do not send country ass white folks that barely speak English with shot guns and drugs to kill the future President. Lord please do not send anyone named Adolph, as that is just so stereotypical that should you have been successful, you would still have lost in the court of public opinion as even most white supremacists know enough not to use the name Adolph publicly. And please, oh please, make sure that whoever you send in the future has a full set of teeth, has had some sort of media training, and is wearing something other than an AC/DC or White Snake t-shirt.
Swastika tatoos are also verboten for the same reasons as anyone named Adolph. For more on Adolph, please see the above paragraph.
In the end, even though the folks that were going to make an attempt on Senator Obama's life were laughable, I was still irate. For about five minutes I was so angry that I burned an additional 200 calories on the Land Strider. The fact that these ignorant bastards still received national airtime for their hate speech, makes me want to remind the press that along with their freedom to report comes a responsibility to not spread hate and injustice. But justice rarely sells ads.
As to be expected he and his friend Adolph (enough said) had decided to kill Barack Obama because, well, nigras ain't supposed to be in public office.
Now...please...white people...if you want to be taken seriously please do not send country ass white folks that barely speak English with shot guns and drugs to kill the future President. Lord please do not send anyone named Adolph, as that is just so stereotypical that should you have been successful, you would still have lost in the court of public opinion as even most white supremacists know enough not to use the name Adolph publicly. And please, oh please, make sure that whoever you send in the future has a full set of teeth, has had some sort of media training, and is wearing something other than an AC/DC or White Snake t-shirt.
Swastika tatoos are also verboten for the same reasons as anyone named Adolph. For more on Adolph, please see the above paragraph.
In the end, even though the folks that were going to make an attempt on Senator Obama's life were laughable, I was still irate. For about five minutes I was so angry that I burned an additional 200 calories on the Land Strider. The fact that these ignorant bastards still received national airtime for their hate speech, makes me want to remind the press that along with their freedom to report comes a responsibility to not spread hate and injustice. But justice rarely sells ads.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
A Camera Phone Eye's View Part II
Yesterday, the gays took the afternoon off from remodeling the house to tour Sharon, Roger, and myself around San Francisco. Here are a couple of my favorite shots from yesterday.
The first is a photo of the Palace of the Arts. The Palace was built in 1915 for the San Francisco World's Fair. Josh was telling me, and I confirmed, that originally the Palace of the Fine Arts was surrounded by acres of other palaces, which, unfortunately, were torn down. When we first arrived at the Palace, I swore that I saw an Elf Maiden emerge from the bushes across the lagoon from where we were standing. Thankfully, other members of our party also saw said Elf Maiden, so I did not have to rush myself to the nearest hospital.
As we continued to walk the Palace grounds, I snapped a picture of the columns holding up the palace.
Josh insisted that the entire palace was crafted from plaster of Paris. Upon closer investigation, the columns, at least, were constructed of good old fashioned cement. Just after taking the photo of the columns, I noticed that the pond arched under the eaves of the Palace and formed a sylvan lagoon. The perfect hiding place for Elf Maidens.I was fascinated by the framing of the lagoon through a beautiful flowering tree, which is where I took this next photo.
As I stood up from snapping this picture with my trusty LG Musiq, I realized that my co-explorers had moved on without me. I continued to follow the edge of the lagoon, and there, just in front of me were the Elf Maidens and their human photographers.
Unfortunately, I did not take any pictures of the Elven ladies, as one of them was so pale that I was afraid that the glare from the flash would blind me permanently. Which would have been my just desserts for trying to capture an image of one of the Fairy Folk.
On a related note, yesterday I mentioned that I believed the World's Fairs take place every ten years. Josh, however, thought they no longer took place. In fact, the World's Fairs also called Expos continue, and they are the third largest event in the world after the Olympic Games and the World Cup. The next World Fair will be Expo Shanghai in 2010.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A Camera Phone's Eye View of the Bay Part One
So, I have decided to do a couple of posts about my meanderings around the East Bay and San Fran. Minneapolis is a beautiful city,
but it has a penchant for tearing down older buildings and replacing them with new structures. It seems to me that both San Francisco and Oakland have retained much of their 19th century architecture. Every place I go, I run into some little placard or a cool statue. As a matter of fact, I have some film that should be ready to be picked up today that, if they turned out, will have some amazing shots from the two cities. But here are a few for now.
This is part of a two part placard set into the ground outside of the old mint in San Francisco. The larger of the two tells the story of the start of the California Gold Rush. The placard does not mention the devastation of the gold rush on the indigenous peoples of California.
There is some awesome flora running around the bay the likes of which I have not seen before. The flower in this picture was part of a ground cover on the boulevard that runs through the center of my neighborhood. I sent a snapshot to David aka Mr. I Know All Plants On Sight, but his knowledge of the California flora failed me. He has brought shame on his family.
Back in 2005 when the Creating Change Conference made its second appeareance in Oakland. RJ and I had a fun filled adventure for lunch through Oakland Chinatown. After walking for what seemed like a thousand years, we finally ate at this Cambodian restaurant. RJ said that white people only eat at Asian restaurants where there are those cheesy pictures on the wall. He was right.
And finally, this tree grows everywhere in the Bay. Josh said that the street name for the tree is a Princess bush. No wonder I like it so much. It was named after me.
but it has a penchant for tearing down older buildings and replacing them with new structures. It seems to me that both San Francisco and Oakland have retained much of their 19th century architecture. Every place I go, I run into some little placard or a cool statue. As a matter of fact, I have some film that should be ready to be picked up today that, if they turned out, will have some amazing shots from the two cities. But here are a few for now.This is part of a two part placard set into the ground outside of the old mint in San Francisco. The larger of the two tells the story of the start of the California Gold Rush. The placard does not mention the devastation of the gold rush on the indigenous peoples of California.
There is some awesome flora running around the bay the likes of which I have not seen before. The flower in this picture was part of a ground cover on the boulevard that runs through the center of my neighborhood. I sent a snapshot to David aka Mr. I Know All Plants On Sight, but his knowledge of the California flora failed me. He has brought shame on his family.
Back in 2005 when the Creating Change Conference made its second appeareance in Oakland. RJ and I had a fun filled adventure for lunch through Oakland Chinatown. After walking for what seemed like a thousand years, we finally ate at this Cambodian restaurant. RJ said that white people only eat at Asian restaurants where there are those cheesy pictures on the wall. He was right.
And finally, this tree grows everywhere in the Bay. Josh said that the street name for the tree is a Princess bush. No wonder I like it so much. It was named after me.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Being Fearless When You Are Afraid
It would be an understatement to say that my world has radically changed. I am living in a new city (realistically at the moment I am living between two cities: Oakland and San Francisco). I am starting a new job on Monday. And I met a human being that challenges me and creates in me such a wonderous combination of fear and joy that sometimes I wonder if I am on an episode of Punk'ed or Hell Date...and at any moment...a midget in a devil suit is going to jump out of the bushes.
A new city is a challenge that I am well equipped to meet. I have spent the last few days walking, getting lost, turning down side streets, snapping photos of flora that I haven't seen before, and meeting new neighbors, and letting my mind adjust to a city that is stunningly beautiful but looks nothing like home. My roommates are both great. Josh is an old friend that I dearly love. His partner has awesome energy, and I have thoroughly enjoyed being with Josh's family this week.
My new job is going to be a great adventure. I am really looking forward to getting started on Monday. I am looking forward to getting back into a healthy work environment. My boss is someone that I can already tell that I am going to deeply respect. And I get to work with some of my favorite people across the country.
And then there is David. David is great. He is brilliant. His art moves me. We communicate open and honestly...and do not tell each other things that we think the other person wants to hear (even when we are playing!). And I am terrified of fucking it up! My favorite therapist taught me to go with my feelings...and I am going with this one. But I need to figure out how to go with my feelings and know that letting your feelings run means letting go of control. That is some scary shit.
Ahh well... here's the living and life changes!
A new city is a challenge that I am well equipped to meet. I have spent the last few days walking, getting lost, turning down side streets, snapping photos of flora that I haven't seen before, and meeting new neighbors, and letting my mind adjust to a city that is stunningly beautiful but looks nothing like home. My roommates are both great. Josh is an old friend that I dearly love. His partner has awesome energy, and I have thoroughly enjoyed being with Josh's family this week.
My new job is going to be a great adventure. I am really looking forward to getting started on Monday. I am looking forward to getting back into a healthy work environment. My boss is someone that I can already tell that I am going to deeply respect. And I get to work with some of my favorite people across the country.
And then there is David. David is great. He is brilliant. His art moves me. We communicate open and honestly...and do not tell each other things that we think the other person wants to hear (even when we are playing!). And I am terrified of fucking it up! My favorite therapist taught me to go with my feelings...and I am going with this one. But I need to figure out how to go with my feelings and know that letting your feelings run means letting go of control. That is some scary shit.
Ahh well... here's the living and life changes!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)