I thought that I would write an appreciation to my blog readers. I am always surprised at the number of people that actual wade their way through the largerly unrelated exhortations that I spew out onto the web. I am always tickled when folks leave comments on things that I have written, but I have come to realize, from passing comments from folks I see in the real world, that many of my friends are out there reading away. Thank you to you all! And thank you to my mystery readers in Israel. Shalom y'all. Shalom.
Just as a side note, I hung out with folks from the Minneapolis chapter of Femme Mafia last night. We had an absolute blast. After a meeting in the park where we shared some stir fried bok choy and a couple of salads passed around, we all piled in at Jack and Nicole's pad and watched Dirty Dancing outside in the backyard on a projector screen (thanks Jayel!). We were all starving, and the little bags of baby carrots were not quite cutting it. At one point, several of us were praying for Jesus to send down sausage pizza from Heave to sate our hunger. Jesus wasn't taking calls at that time, unfortunately.
Over the course of the evening we made many a lusty comment about Patrick Swayze's tight little bum, there was group consensus that the dirty dancing lesbian and gay twink couple were our favorite, and, of course, there was general agreement that Patrick put the Sway in Swayze...aka...he's a big old mo. Cuz...nobody puts baby in a corner.
After such a great evening, there is only one thing to say....TATTERS!
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Thanks To You Blog Readers and Femme Mafia Shout Out!
I thought that I would write an appreciation to my blog readers. I am always surprised at the number of people that actual wade their way through the largerly unrelated exhortations that I spew out onto the web. I am always tickled when folks leave comments on things that I have written, but I have come to realize, from passing comments from folks I see in the real world, that many of my friends are out there reading away. Thank you to you all! And thank you to my mystery readers in Israel. Shalom y'all. Shalom.
Just as a side note, I hung out with folks from the Minneapolis chapter of Femme Mafia last night. We had an absolute blast. After a meeting in the park where we shared some stir fried bok choy and a couple of salads passed around, we all piled in at Jack and Nicole's pad and watched Dirty Dancing outside in the backyard on a projector screen (thanks Jayel!). We were all starving, and the little bags of baby carrots were not quite cutting it. At one point, several of us were praying for Jesus to send down sausage pizza from Heave to sate our hunger. Jesus wasn't taking calls at that time, unfortunately.
Over the course of the evening we made many a lusty comment about Patrick Swayze's tight little bum, there was group consensus that the dirty dancing lesbian and gay twink couple were our favorite, and, of course, there was general agreement that Patrick put the Sway in Swayze...aka...he's a big old mo. Cuz...nobody puts baby in a corner.
After such a great evening, there is only one thing to say....TATTERS!
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Love Poem
I have a very dear friend that I met my first week of high school in Ms. Simon's sculpture class. Nicole Harris was a year older than me and and shared the work table next to me with another Nicole...Nicole McGill. When I first met Nicole Harris I hated the woman. She was mean and wicked, and I wanted to sculpt a house and drop it on her. Then steal her fierce ass shoes. She and Nicole lied to me and told me that they had the same Dad but different Moms. My gullible ass believed them. At the time, if you would have told me that that 16 years later that she and I would still be friends, or that I would spend more than one Thanksgiving and Christmas with her entire family, I would have sculpted a house and dropped it on you too. It wasn't until I was a sophomore that she and I became friends. We both competed on the speech team together. She was the shining star of the team, and, with all humility, I was the up and coming speech wiz at old Henry High. Over the next two years, we became closer, until, my junior year I realized two things: I was in love with Nicole Harris, and I did not want to have sex with her in any way. Before that point I knew I had attraction to guys but I wasn't sure if I did to girls. Nicole sealed the deal for me. I emotionally loved her, I physically wanted a guy from the soccer team. I was a big old mo.
That's the background behind my newest poem.
Love Poem
For Noodle
For her I used to write love poems
mornings spent before sunrise
stargazing
she was my Polaris
the magnetic north that drew
my spirit towards pen & paper
poetry was the only way to reconcile love without lust
desire to have and to be without desire to be with
For her I used to write love poems
I could not write for myself
I didn't believe love was for me
so I gave it to her
hastily scribbled odes & lines
wrapping her in soft folds of adolescent adoration
she awakened my self-awareness
as they crowned her homecoming queen
as they handed her roses
I sat in the bleechers
reached for poetic razors
surgical phrases
thrust into my thorassic cavity
with a reverant ripping
from across the crowded room silently
I handed her my heart
I offered her my pulse
begged her to take the poetry
take the pain
I begged her to tell me how I could love her but not want her
how poetry could be serrated t-cells sawing at my bones
how every day I committed suicide on paper
pulling tape worms from my gut
slamming their writhing bodies into tragic attempts to digest
the secret that stood between my cock
and my heart
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Minneapolis, MN
-14 June 2008
That's the background behind my newest poem.
Love Poem
For Noodle
For her I used to write love poems
mornings spent before sunrise
stargazing
she was my Polaris
the magnetic north that drew
my spirit towards pen & paper
poetry was the only way to reconcile love without lust
desire to have and to be without desire to be with
For her I used to write love poems
I could not write for myself
I didn't believe love was for me
so I gave it to her
hastily scribbled odes & lines
wrapping her in soft folds of adolescent adoration
she awakened my self-awareness
as they crowned her homecoming queen
as they handed her roses
I sat in the bleechers
reached for poetic razors
surgical phrases
thrust into my thorassic cavity
with a reverant ripping
from across the crowded room silently
I handed her my heart
I offered her my pulse
begged her to take the poetry
take the pain
I begged her to tell me how I could love her but not want her
how poetry could be serrated t-cells sawing at my bones
how every day I committed suicide on paper
pulling tape worms from my gut
slamming their writhing bodies into tragic attempts to digest
the secret that stood between my cock
and my heart
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Minneapolis, MN
-14 June 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Obama and Me
I work in the political field. I believe that I have a fairly sophisticated analysis of progressive politics. I have worked for almost 15 years in a wide range of political efforts including radical grassroots social change as far right as conventional electoral politics (ranging from the Democratic Party to the Independence and Green Parties). Each year, I have gained a clearer and clearer image of the world I would like to see and a better understanding of some of the tools that will get us there. I also know that reform will only take us so far. At some point, whether we prepare for it or not, a revolution will again hit this land mass---and I know that with preparation that can be a democratically based revolution made through the creative use of just democratic practice that acknowledges and compensates for oppression or it will be a bloody revolution with an outcome that is unknown but will, most assuredly, result in great repression.
I know that Barack Obama is, at best, a strategic choice for moving forward with some of the reforms that are necessary to make a democratic revolution possibly. I know that on the great and most pressing issues of the day: war, capitalism, systems of power based in oppression, American hegemony and empire, a President Obama will be more palatable than a Republican president but he will be no messiah signaling the end of those societal cankers.
Yet, with all my heart and soul, I pray that the next President of the United States is Barack Obama.
This evening, I met with two of my co-artists from the group Los Palabristas (www.myspace.com/palabristas). We met to record some of our poetry. I recorded two poems tonight: Stump Speech, which you can find on this blog, and Big Sam, which I will post shortly. One poem is my response to this election year and this country in general. The other poem is a story about my family's history as slaves. I then logged onto my computer and saw an ad that asked the question, “Will Barack Obama be the first African American president?,” and I felt the spirit of Big Sam draw in breath.
Whether or not Obama will be a history maker in terms of presidential achievements to me, at this time, is a hope but not the point. For me, right now, in this moment with a deeply racialized anger sitting just beneath my skin, I want Barack Obama in the White House for the simple reason that 50 years ago, the prevailing attitude of the majority of people living in this country was not only would no black person ever sit in the White House but that no black person had the intelligence, integrity, or ability to do so. The day that President Obama takes his oath of office will not be the day that all past wrongs against people of African descent will be reconciled. Most definitely not. But it will be the day when the spirit of all black people on either side of the ocean, will have the chance to utter a collective fuck you to those that once consider us beasts of burden lacking a soul and having a mind that was akin to that of a child.
I know, academically, that Western civilization owns its existence to Africa. I know that some of the greatest social and scientific thought and achievement of the modern and ancient world has been created by people of African descent. I know that when Columbus invaded America there were empires in Africa of such wealth and learning that they would not allow European scholars to teach in their universities and European monarchs were weak barbarians in comparison. But the academic knowing of my history and its strength is not sufficient to overcome a spiritual malaise that was beaten into my ancestors at the end of a whip and choked into them at the end of a rope.
Barack Obama represents the greatest and most powerful “kiss my ass” to the legacy of racism, slavery, and genocide in these several states.
And for that reason, I will be casting my vote for Senator Obama on November 4, 2008.
I know that Barack Obama is, at best, a strategic choice for moving forward with some of the reforms that are necessary to make a democratic revolution possibly. I know that on the great and most pressing issues of the day: war, capitalism, systems of power based in oppression, American hegemony and empire, a President Obama will be more palatable than a Republican president but he will be no messiah signaling the end of those societal cankers.
Yet, with all my heart and soul, I pray that the next President of the United States is Barack Obama.
This evening, I met with two of my co-artists from the group Los Palabristas (www.myspace.com/palabristas). We met to record some of our poetry. I recorded two poems tonight: Stump Speech, which you can find on this blog, and Big Sam, which I will post shortly. One poem is my response to this election year and this country in general. The other poem is a story about my family's history as slaves. I then logged onto my computer and saw an ad that asked the question, “Will Barack Obama be the first African American president?,” and I felt the spirit of Big Sam draw in breath.
Whether or not Obama will be a history maker in terms of presidential achievements to me, at this time, is a hope but not the point. For me, right now, in this moment with a deeply racialized anger sitting just beneath my skin, I want Barack Obama in the White House for the simple reason that 50 years ago, the prevailing attitude of the majority of people living in this country was not only would no black person ever sit in the White House but that no black person had the intelligence, integrity, or ability to do so. The day that President Obama takes his oath of office will not be the day that all past wrongs against people of African descent will be reconciled. Most definitely not. But it will be the day when the spirit of all black people on either side of the ocean, will have the chance to utter a collective fuck you to those that once consider us beasts of burden lacking a soul and having a mind that was akin to that of a child.
I know, academically, that Western civilization owns its existence to Africa. I know that some of the greatest social and scientific thought and achievement of the modern and ancient world has been created by people of African descent. I know that when Columbus invaded America there were empires in Africa of such wealth and learning that they would not allow European scholars to teach in their universities and European monarchs were weak barbarians in comparison. But the academic knowing of my history and its strength is not sufficient to overcome a spiritual malaise that was beaten into my ancestors at the end of a whip and choked into them at the end of a rope.
Barack Obama represents the greatest and most powerful “kiss my ass” to the legacy of racism, slavery, and genocide in these several states.
And for that reason, I will be casting my vote for Senator Obama on November 4, 2008.
Big Sam
For Big Sam Haynes, my Great-Great-Great Granddaddy
I got an email the other day from Miss Carol Haynes, a new found cousin. She wrote, “The Nickells were the family who owned us when we were slaves, and while most of us got free Big Sam is still in chains.”
Big Sam was a good nigger man according to the chapter called “The Darkies,” in the Nickell family history. Legend has it that Big Sam was the best team driving man in Greenbrier County.
One day he turned a team of horses around in a narrow alleyway and a white man offered to pay top dollar to buy that good nigger.
And I wonder.
I wonder if Big Sam looked at that white man and thought, “it would be so easy to kill him to turn loose this team and run him over, pound his white skin into the dirty stone of this street, turn the horses in circle after circle until his pale pink skin is dark, but not like mine. His skin will be bruised, dirty, the color of shit ground into snow. It would never be, could never be the deep shades of ebony, onyx, sun kissed carbon that is my holy African inheritance.”
I wonder if he thought those things, while he Sambo-ed, and through gritted teeth, words digging double hands into the flesh of his tongue as he said, “thank you, suh.”
Miss Carol’s email continued said she’d spoken with a Nickell descendant that said, “Big Sam was such a good nig…negro man that my sister keeps a picture of him on her wall.”
And I wonder.
I wonder if Big Sam’s ghost looks out of that photo, his spirit raging at 150 years of hanging, swinging by an invisible noose, watching television and screaming at the Jena Six, that professor at Columbia, that pick up truck in Alabama, at all the nooses visible and invisible hanging around the necks of his people his children his familial diaspora. Does he call on Yemaya and Oshun, Legba and Ogun, does he demand that Jesus climb down from his cross and take up his Father’s old testament solutions, fire, salt, boils, locusts, the bellies of whales. Does his spirit refuse to kneel before the throne of God because his knees were bent for too damn long. Does he stand outside of Heaven’s gates refusing to come in until his picture comes down?"
And I wonder.
If he has found the peace that passes my understanding, if he can laugh and cry at the circumstances of his life, if he can turn the other cheek, if he can tell me how to calm the fire raging deep within me in places dark, wet, primal that I never knew existed until the day I learned the name of our former slave masters, until I had a target for my sometimes inarticulate pen, the why behind my need to sing spirituals not of escaping but taking back the spirit beaten, hung, swung, raped, worked, and sold out of my grandparents, why at 30 the internet knows more than I know about my own family.
And I wonder.
If Big Sam is waiting for me like he waited for Loma, Juanita, and Druesilla. Did he meet them just the other side of the setting sun and welcome them home? Did he watch as they shed skins that once imprisoned them? Did he hold them as they shouted, hollered, tore at their own throats to release their pain and joy, their fear and confusion, did he walk them along that dark, uneven path towards understanding, catch them as they stumbled, stopped them as they contemplated running back over the horizon to the bondage of the familiar, the safety found in constant aching.
And I wonder.
How to rescue Big Sam. How to set free my great-great-great Grandfather. How to tear down the wall….strung up with strange fruit….blood fruit….my blood…my history.
And I wonder.
If it is really Big Sam that needs freeing…
I got an email the other day from Miss Carol Haynes, a new found cousin. She wrote, “The Nickells were the family who owned us when we were slaves, and while most of us got free Big Sam is still in chains.”
Big Sam was a good nigger man according to the chapter called “The Darkies,” in the Nickell family history. Legend has it that Big Sam was the best team driving man in Greenbrier County.
One day he turned a team of horses around in a narrow alleyway and a white man offered to pay top dollar to buy that good nigger.
And I wonder.
I wonder if Big Sam looked at that white man and thought, “it would be so easy to kill him to turn loose this team and run him over, pound his white skin into the dirty stone of this street, turn the horses in circle after circle until his pale pink skin is dark, but not like mine. His skin will be bruised, dirty, the color of shit ground into snow. It would never be, could never be the deep shades of ebony, onyx, sun kissed carbon that is my holy African inheritance.”
I wonder if he thought those things, while he Sambo-ed, and through gritted teeth, words digging double hands into the flesh of his tongue as he said, “thank you, suh.”
Miss Carol’s email continued said she’d spoken with a Nickell descendant that said, “Big Sam was such a good nig…negro man that my sister keeps a picture of him on her wall.”
And I wonder.
I wonder if Big Sam’s ghost looks out of that photo, his spirit raging at 150 years of hanging, swinging by an invisible noose, watching television and screaming at the Jena Six, that professor at Columbia, that pick up truck in Alabama, at all the nooses visible and invisible hanging around the necks of his people his children his familial diaspora. Does he call on Yemaya and Oshun, Legba and Ogun, does he demand that Jesus climb down from his cross and take up his Father’s old testament solutions, fire, salt, boils, locusts, the bellies of whales. Does his spirit refuse to kneel before the throne of God because his knees were bent for too damn long. Does he stand outside of Heaven’s gates refusing to come in until his picture comes down?"
And I wonder.
If he has found the peace that passes my understanding, if he can laugh and cry at the circumstances of his life, if he can turn the other cheek, if he can tell me how to calm the fire raging deep within me in places dark, wet, primal that I never knew existed until the day I learned the name of our former slave masters, until I had a target for my sometimes inarticulate pen, the why behind my need to sing spirituals not of escaping but taking back the spirit beaten, hung, swung, raped, worked, and sold out of my grandparents, why at 30 the internet knows more than I know about my own family.
And I wonder.
If Big Sam is waiting for me like he waited for Loma, Juanita, and Druesilla. Did he meet them just the other side of the setting sun and welcome them home? Did he watch as they shed skins that once imprisoned them? Did he hold them as they shouted, hollered, tore at their own throats to release their pain and joy, their fear and confusion, did he walk them along that dark, uneven path towards understanding, catch them as they stumbled, stopped them as they contemplated running back over the horizon to the bondage of the familiar, the safety found in constant aching.
And I wonder.
How to rescue Big Sam. How to set free my great-great-great Grandfather. How to tear down the wall….strung up with strange fruit….blood fruit….my blood…my history.
And I wonder.
If it is really Big Sam that needs freeing…
Monday, June 9, 2008
Pay My Telephone Bills
I am tired. The sun is shining outside, I am nursing a cup of java, and I am so tired that if my state representative wasn't sitting at a table across from me in this coffee shop, I would shamelessly let my head drop to my chest and start drooling.
Someone somewhere forgot to tell “the movement” about the 40 hour work week, mandatory lunch breaks, and vacation. I have been going strong now since weekend before weekend before last. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. Which is why I am so damn upset that, like so many non-profits, we are facing shutting our doors.
In a world that values conformity, corporate principles, and shady values...working for a self-identified revolutionary organization whose aim is to rip apart the oppressive power systems of this country and re-build using democratic practices rooted in liberation is pretty much a recipe for reducing your potential funding streams to your crazy eccentric uncle Fred who wears a bra on his head and the millions of poor folks that want to see real change in the world.
Unfortunately, Fred is too worried about the aliens scanning his brain waves to write a check, and we don't have the advertising budget to reach the millions of natural allies that would be happy to send us $5 to support our work (100,000 people x $5=a budget for revolutionary change). See Mom, I paid attention in math class.
I have faith that my little organization that this weekend blew the tops off roughly a thousand folks that attended our workshops and plenaries during Democracy Day and the National Conference on Media Reform will still be around three months from now. But, we could use your help.
If you believe that this country has some seriously deep flaws and needs some serious help. Then take a serious moment to go to www.libertytreefdr.org, and consider making a serious donation.
Someone somewhere forgot to tell “the movement” about the 40 hour work week, mandatory lunch breaks, and vacation. I have been going strong now since weekend before weekend before last. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. Which is why I am so damn upset that, like so many non-profits, we are facing shutting our doors.
In a world that values conformity, corporate principles, and shady values...working for a self-identified revolutionary organization whose aim is to rip apart the oppressive power systems of this country and re-build using democratic practices rooted in liberation is pretty much a recipe for reducing your potential funding streams to your crazy eccentric uncle Fred who wears a bra on his head and the millions of poor folks that want to see real change in the world.
Unfortunately, Fred is too worried about the aliens scanning his brain waves to write a check, and we don't have the advertising budget to reach the millions of natural allies that would be happy to send us $5 to support our work (100,000 people x $5=a budget for revolutionary change). See Mom, I paid attention in math class.
I have faith that my little organization that this weekend blew the tops off roughly a thousand folks that attended our workshops and plenaries during Democracy Day and the National Conference on Media Reform will still be around three months from now. But, we could use your help.
If you believe that this country has some seriously deep flaws and needs some serious help. Then take a serious moment to go to www.libertytreefdr.org, and consider making a serious donation.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Cousin Jimmy
Last night, I stood up in front of five hundred media and democracy reform leaders. On the stage next to me were Joe Bleifuss, Amy Goodman, and John Nichols. Rob Richie from FairVote and Solange from Public Campaign were two of the three welcome speakers. I was the third. My job was to welcome the crowd to Minneapolis and share a little bit about the Liberty Tree analysis. I stood up, with no preparation, with two glasses of cheap chardonnay in me, and I caught the spirit. I don't know where it came from but for two minutes the words rolled off my tongue. And the audience was insane. People were cheering and clapping throughout the entire speech. As I left the stage, Amy Goodman gave me a broad smile. John Nichols stood up and enthusiastically shook my hand. And Solange leaned over and whispered that she never wanted to speak after me. Two old ladies stopped me and asked me for my contact information, and a freelance writer said that she would like to write an article about me. I was embarrassed by the praise of dozens of people.
And I can't remember a damn word I said.
It was an amazing climax to a day that I had been co-planning for seven months. And then my Mom called.
I have a cousin named James Wakefield. Jimmy is not just my favorite cousin, he is my white, straight radical twin. He has a twin brother, actually. But in the way that he and I see the world, in the work that we do, in the way that we believe in change, he and I are alike. As we have gotten older our family has begun to swear that we look alike. I don't see it. But our Mothers swear to it. And Mom's know best.
My cousin Jimmy also has leukemia. Last December he was diagnosed with leukemia. In February he had an experimental bone marrow stem cell transplant. The doctors were calling him the miracle kid. His immune system was rebounding. His blood type was going to be different (it would be his older brothers...as he was the one that provided the stem cells). And last night, my Mom called to tell me that Jimmy's cancer had come back.
I was standing in the lobby of the Hilton and the world seemed to tip sideways. When I found out that he had cancer the first time, I didn't cry. I knew that he would kick cancer right in the face. My family for all its faults does a few things well: throw a hell of a party, when faced with crisis we come together like a Roman phalanx and we survive. Last night, I stood in the hallway of the Hilton and held David Cobb's hand and cried. Jimmy is brilliant. He has a huge heart. He just got engaged to an amazing, sassy, lovely French woman named Marie. He has a beautiful two year old nephew that loves his Uncle Jimmy. He taught English in Korea. He lived in Senegal. He understands racism and his role as a white man in fighting it. He is hilarious. He is my family.
I stood there with David, and I cried because there isn't shit I can do about any of this. I pride myself on being a crisis manager. When my friends have problems, I am a person they call to help them figure it out. My fucking strength finder says strategy is one of my greatest strengths. And there isn't anything I can do about my cousin's cancer.
But I can pray. Even though I am really pissed at God right now. I'm not going to let him get off easy. I am going to be so far in his damn ear that he is going to either listen to me or smite me. And if he smites me, at least I'll be able to let him know what I think about all this in person.
And I can't remember a damn word I said.
It was an amazing climax to a day that I had been co-planning for seven months. And then my Mom called.
I have a cousin named James Wakefield. Jimmy is not just my favorite cousin, he is my white, straight radical twin. He has a twin brother, actually. But in the way that he and I see the world, in the work that we do, in the way that we believe in change, he and I are alike. As we have gotten older our family has begun to swear that we look alike. I don't see it. But our Mothers swear to it. And Mom's know best.
My cousin Jimmy also has leukemia. Last December he was diagnosed with leukemia. In February he had an experimental bone marrow stem cell transplant. The doctors were calling him the miracle kid. His immune system was rebounding. His blood type was going to be different (it would be his older brothers...as he was the one that provided the stem cells). And last night, my Mom called to tell me that Jimmy's cancer had come back.
I was standing in the lobby of the Hilton and the world seemed to tip sideways. When I found out that he had cancer the first time, I didn't cry. I knew that he would kick cancer right in the face. My family for all its faults does a few things well: throw a hell of a party, when faced with crisis we come together like a Roman phalanx and we survive. Last night, I stood in the hallway of the Hilton and held David Cobb's hand and cried. Jimmy is brilliant. He has a huge heart. He just got engaged to an amazing, sassy, lovely French woman named Marie. He has a beautiful two year old nephew that loves his Uncle Jimmy. He taught English in Korea. He lived in Senegal. He understands racism and his role as a white man in fighting it. He is hilarious. He is my family.
I stood there with David, and I cried because there isn't shit I can do about any of this. I pride myself on being a crisis manager. When my friends have problems, I am a person they call to help them figure it out. My fucking strength finder says strategy is one of my greatest strengths. And there isn't anything I can do about my cousin's cancer.
But I can pray. Even though I am really pissed at God right now. I'm not going to let him get off easy. I am going to be so far in his damn ear that he is going to either listen to me or smite me. And if he smites me, at least I'll be able to let him know what I think about all this in person.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Super Duper Magical Negro Strikes Again...or Does She
Sometime in the last year, I fell completely in love with Grey's Anatomy. The show is well written, has clever dialogue and the storylines are less predictable than my other favorite doctor saves all show House.
My favorite character, of course is the Chief Resident, Miranda, who also happens to be the only black woman on the show besides the occasional appearance of the wife of the Chief of Surgery. Back in 2001 at a speech at Yale, Spike Lee coined the phrase super duper magical Negro. He used this term to identify the stereotypical character that has appeared over and over again in cinema and literature. In general, it is a maid or a slave or a criminal or a janitor that has some magical power or amazing power of insight. And, and this is the important part, said working class Negro with supernatural powers uses them to solve the problems of one or more clueless white people.
Now, admittedly, Miranda has not yet, as of season four, demonstrated any particular ability to see directly through a patients chest at their internal organs, shoot lasers from her eyes do to microscopic brain surgery, or stop the hearts of annoying interns by snapping her fingers. But, particularly in the first two seasons, she plays the role of the thunderstorm of power and strength (with occasional vulnerability) that blazes into the room smacks an intern in the back of the head and then gives them just enough down home country advice to make the white person think. She never gives the answer, and she sure doesn't make it easy on the poor white boy or girl, but she is the catalyst that allows them to see through their mental fog (or post-coital fog) to the truth at the heart of the matter.
In that Miranda is not a poor, downtrodden black woman in a do-rag kowtowing to massuh weaving roots into a shut-your-mouth brew while making a pot of collards and chitlin's, she stands slightly outside of the official recipe of the Super Duper Magical Negro. But, in that she shows up just in the nick of time with a black matron authority (and sometimes Mammy reminiscent role of nurturing and teaching ethics and appropriate behavior to white folks that are technical her superiors but bow to her for her motherly ways) , she is very true to type.
I admit that I have not seen the full second season or the entire third season, but I did watch the fourth season and very little had changed with her character except that she was allowed more depth of character and her superhumanness was placed in check by the imminent loss of her husband. She was finally forced to recognize that she was not made of bionic parts and Dupont plastics. I am interested to see at what point in the series the humanizing of the magical Negro begins and if, in the season to come, her character will be allowed to deepen and broaden, portraying the undeniable brilliance and strengths that are the hallmark and heritage of black women but also the very real historical burden, pain, and struggle (internal and external) that has forced black women to try and make themselves into Spike Lee's Super Duper Magical Heroes.
My favorite character, of course is the Chief Resident, Miranda, who also happens to be the only black woman on the show besides the occasional appearance of the wife of the Chief of Surgery. Back in 2001 at a speech at Yale, Spike Lee coined the phrase super duper magical Negro. He used this term to identify the stereotypical character that has appeared over and over again in cinema and literature. In general, it is a maid or a slave or a criminal or a janitor that has some magical power or amazing power of insight. And, and this is the important part, said working class Negro with supernatural powers uses them to solve the problems of one or more clueless white people.
Now, admittedly, Miranda has not yet, as of season four, demonstrated any particular ability to see directly through a patients chest at their internal organs, shoot lasers from her eyes do to microscopic brain surgery, or stop the hearts of annoying interns by snapping her fingers. But, particularly in the first two seasons, she plays the role of the thunderstorm of power and strength (with occasional vulnerability) that blazes into the room smacks an intern in the back of the head and then gives them just enough down home country advice to make the white person think. She never gives the answer, and she sure doesn't make it easy on the poor white boy or girl, but she is the catalyst that allows them to see through their mental fog (or post-coital fog) to the truth at the heart of the matter.
In that Miranda is not a poor, downtrodden black woman in a do-rag kowtowing to massuh weaving roots into a shut-your-mouth brew while making a pot of collards and chitlin's, she stands slightly outside of the official recipe of the Super Duper Magical Negro. But, in that she shows up just in the nick of time with a black matron authority (and sometimes Mammy reminiscent role of nurturing and teaching ethics and appropriate behavior to white folks that are technical her superiors but bow to her for her motherly ways) , she is very true to type.
I admit that I have not seen the full second season or the entire third season, but I did watch the fourth season and very little had changed with her character except that she was allowed more depth of character and her superhumanness was placed in check by the imminent loss of her husband. She was finally forced to recognize that she was not made of bionic parts and Dupont plastics. I am interested to see at what point in the series the humanizing of the magical Negro begins and if, in the season to come, her character will be allowed to deepen and broaden, portraying the undeniable brilliance and strengths that are the hallmark and heritage of black women but also the very real historical burden, pain, and struggle (internal and external) that has forced black women to try and make themselves into Spike Lee's Super Duper Magical Heroes.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Humility Is Not My Favorite Virtue
I have had a bad habit lately (basically for a week) of lashing out at folks when the true target of my ire is someone else. I did it to Tay last week. I did it to Ross today. I am batting 0-2 right now. Sometimes I hate being a Minnesotan.
Passive aggressiveness is fed to us her from the tit. Before we can walk we can snub, cold shoulder, patronize, and plot the destruction of our assassins in such a way that the Medicis themselves would stand up and cheer.
I pride myself on trying to be as direct as possible with folks. I have come a long way from the time when I practice passive aggressive behavior so well I could convince the target of my ire to be angry at themselves for something I did. That was a truly evil super power. But, I gave up my wicked ways and instead sought to use my powers for good.
For the last week I've felt like Superman when he touches green Kryptonite...my evil super twin comes out and hurls all my anger and frustration at the innocent bystander standing right next to my true target.
Today I publicly apologized for lashing out at Ross. Humble pie tastes like rotted ass dipped in vomit swirled in baby shit and covered in mutant pissed off maggots. But swallow it I did.
Passive aggressiveness is fed to us her from the tit. Before we can walk we can snub, cold shoulder, patronize, and plot the destruction of our assassins in such a way that the Medicis themselves would stand up and cheer.
I pride myself on trying to be as direct as possible with folks. I have come a long way from the time when I practice passive aggressive behavior so well I could convince the target of my ire to be angry at themselves for something I did. That was a truly evil super power. But, I gave up my wicked ways and instead sought to use my powers for good.
For the last week I've felt like Superman when he touches green Kryptonite...my evil super twin comes out and hurls all my anger and frustration at the innocent bystander standing right next to my true target.
Today I publicly apologized for lashing out at Ross. Humble pie tastes like rotted ass dipped in vomit swirled in baby shit and covered in mutant pissed off maggots. But swallow it I did.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Political One Liner of the Week Award
So, today I was chatting on Facebook with my old pal Megan Thomas. Megan was relating to me a story of a friend of hers that passed away from lung cancer (non-smoking related...and the poor guy was only 27...super sad). The young man happened to be a huge supporter of Hillary Clinton. At the memorial service today, the following remark was made:
"Mike had to go to heaven to help Hillary. Because only a miracle can help her now."
That definitely qualifies for the Political One Liner of the Week Award. Awarded to Megan Thomas on behalf of the young man who passed away much much too soon.
"Mike had to go to heaven to help Hillary. Because only a miracle can help her now."
That definitely qualifies for the Political One Liner of the Week Award. Awarded to Megan Thomas on behalf of the young man who passed away much much too soon.
The Enron Factor
I am pretty much exhausted. I work for an organization comprised of largely kick ass individuals that I respect and love. But, like many small non-profits still in the start-up phase, we have lots and lots and lots to figure out when it comes to organizational development and personal interactions. I am as guilty as the rest of falling into the personalities not policies trap.
One of the strengths of organizing in the political left is that we value not only the product but the process and the people. For many of us, if the product is stellar but the process to develop it is fucked up and the people involved in creating the product walk away from the process hurting (physically, mentally, spiritually) then, truthfully, the product is worthless. Our inherent difference from the Corporate Right is that the total value of an outcome is not solely based on the worth of the product but indeed the worth of the entire endeavor from start to finish. The belief that only outcomes matter continues to be at the core of mainstream society and at the heart of the underpinnings of our capitalist system and our democracy.
Liberty Tree works specifically around democracy issues. At our core, we reject winner take all systems because, frankly, those systems are the “democracy” equivalent of Enron. At Enron, the bottom line was dollars and profits and it didn't matter that the process to create the dollars was flawed, faulty, and false. It didn't matter that while some few would become mega rich that the people involved, particularly the workers, would eat the penalities at the cost of their pensions when the three Fs were un covered. In a winner take all democratic practice, it doesn't matter how the process to get elected happens, who pays for it, what promises are made and not kept or the margin by which victory is declared (ie plurality versus majority) the only thing that matters is victory and the people left without representation or voice be damned and the shredded and mortally wounded democratic process be buried alongside the people. At Enron it was the top executives that “won.” In the American Democracy, it is generally Senators, Representatives, Governors and Presidents that are the Ken Lays.
Unfortunately, at times, these same values to which all U.S. citizens to some degree are inculcated manage to sneak across the center aisle, weave through the liberals and sneak into the progressive community. In the last couple of weeks, both internal to my own organziation and to organizations with which I volunteer the depth of the infiltration of the “me first, me second, me last and always” mentality has been unveiled. But there is a difference, on the right the Me Mentality is often calculated and conscious. On the Left, particularly the revolutionary left, it is a subconscious act that the conscious radical rejects while actively acting it out. I am no exception. When I find my personal issues triggered, I find myself to be a masterful player of the Me game. To my credit, when I am confronted (or I confront myself, which also happens) I do what I can to seperate the Me from the what's right and try to make amends for any actions I took in defense of my self interest that crossed from self preservation into selfishness.
I once believed that all my comadres and copadres on the left had the same ability and desire to overcome, reject, and replace the Corporate Right instincts that have been ingrained into us by pop consumer captialist culture. I am still convinced that 98% of my friends and loved ones that are seeking to change the world for the better are still committed to fighting the three Fs both personally and in the political realm and excorcising them. But, I realized today, after thinking over some of the struggles of the last couple of weeks, that there are some people on the Left that even when lovingly given the grace to confront their own inner Ken Lay instead hire an internal Karl Rove to run a public image campaign to allow them to continue presenting one reality while living another. For the first time in a long time, my faith has been shaken. Or, perhaps better to say, that for the first time in my life I am considering walking away from particular people because I do not believe they want to be different than they are now. Even more sobering is that there have been times in my life when people in my life have felt the same way about me.
One of the strengths of organizing in the political left is that we value not only the product but the process and the people. For many of us, if the product is stellar but the process to develop it is fucked up and the people involved in creating the product walk away from the process hurting (physically, mentally, spiritually) then, truthfully, the product is worthless. Our inherent difference from the Corporate Right is that the total value of an outcome is not solely based on the worth of the product but indeed the worth of the entire endeavor from start to finish. The belief that only outcomes matter continues to be at the core of mainstream society and at the heart of the underpinnings of our capitalist system and our democracy.
Liberty Tree works specifically around democracy issues. At our core, we reject winner take all systems because, frankly, those systems are the “democracy” equivalent of Enron. At Enron, the bottom line was dollars and profits and it didn't matter that the process to create the dollars was flawed, faulty, and false. It didn't matter that while some few would become mega rich that the people involved, particularly the workers, would eat the penalities at the cost of their pensions when the three Fs were un covered. In a winner take all democratic practice, it doesn't matter how the process to get elected happens, who pays for it, what promises are made and not kept or the margin by which victory is declared (ie plurality versus majority) the only thing that matters is victory and the people left without representation or voice be damned and the shredded and mortally wounded democratic process be buried alongside the people. At Enron it was the top executives that “won.” In the American Democracy, it is generally Senators, Representatives, Governors and Presidents that are the Ken Lays.
Unfortunately, at times, these same values to which all U.S. citizens to some degree are inculcated manage to sneak across the center aisle, weave through the liberals and sneak into the progressive community. In the last couple of weeks, both internal to my own organziation and to organizations with which I volunteer the depth of the infiltration of the “me first, me second, me last and always” mentality has been unveiled. But there is a difference, on the right the Me Mentality is often calculated and conscious. On the Left, particularly the revolutionary left, it is a subconscious act that the conscious radical rejects while actively acting it out. I am no exception. When I find my personal issues triggered, I find myself to be a masterful player of the Me game. To my credit, when I am confronted (or I confront myself, which also happens) I do what I can to seperate the Me from the what's right and try to make amends for any actions I took in defense of my self interest that crossed from self preservation into selfishness.
I once believed that all my comadres and copadres on the left had the same ability and desire to overcome, reject, and replace the Corporate Right instincts that have been ingrained into us by pop consumer captialist culture. I am still convinced that 98% of my friends and loved ones that are seeking to change the world for the better are still committed to fighting the three Fs both personally and in the political realm and excorcising them. But, I realized today, after thinking over some of the struggles of the last couple of weeks, that there are some people on the Left that even when lovingly given the grace to confront their own inner Ken Lay instead hire an internal Karl Rove to run a public image campaign to allow them to continue presenting one reality while living another. For the first time in a long time, my faith has been shaken. Or, perhaps better to say, that for the first time in my life I am considering walking away from particular people because I do not believe they want to be different than they are now. Even more sobering is that there have been times in my life when people in my life have felt the same way about me.
Monday, May 26, 2008
L.I.C.E and M.I.C.E
I think that everyone should be forced to take Continuing Education Credits and need to be re certified on basic skills learned in kindergarten at least once every five years. In particular, everyone should be forced to take a Live Interactive Courtesy Evaluation (LICE) and a Minimum Interaction Communication Evaluation (MICE) with a passing grade in order to be able to talk or otherwise interact with other living creatures including common pets and domestic livestock.
Let me explain how I came to this conclusion. This afternoon, I was attempting to take a nap on a languid early summer day in Madison. Taylour's apartment looks out over Lake Mendota. The vista combined with 45 minutes of canoing earlier in the afternoon and a tasty lunch had given me the -itis (for more information on the -itis please see Aaron McGruder's Boondocks). I had settled down on the Green Pleather Couch (aka my bed away from home when I visit the office in Madison) only to be awakened by the irate slamming of the microwave door, the bathroom door, several cabinets, and a plethora of pots and pans. Thus returned Andy.
Andy is Taylour's special needs roommate. In general, he is a likable guy. He is fairly quiet, and he is prone to passive aggressive fits of preschool playground behavior. I rose from my nap, and tip-toed into the kitchen. I knew that Andy had often gone nuclear on Taylour over a stray dish left in the sink. So, I ran water in my rice pot and into the wok and jumped in the shower with the intention of cleaning the dishes after I emerged. As I was toweling off, I was again aurally assaulted by another round of slamming and banging dishes and pots and pans followed by the crash of the kitchen door being flung open and slammed shut.
I emerged from the bathroom, this time, ready to cut a bitch in the throat. I looked in the kitchen to find the wok was missing. Then, a moment later, Taylour entered. I was hoping that she had temporarily gone crazy and had been the one slamming things around. Alas, it was too much for which to hope.
“Andy is mad because you put soap in his wok,” she said shrugging and looking apologetic for his asinine behavior.
“Andy needs to grow the hell up and stop slamming shit around like he was on the playground and the girls wouldn't let him play jump rope with them,” I said.
Turns out, to compound the situation, Andy was drunk. Drunk at 5pm on a Monday....GO ANDY GO (I am a little bit jealous). But, drunk or no, I expect anyone over the age of say 18 that has a full time job and a college degree to be able to knock on the bathroom door and say, “hey...you shouldn't put soap in the wok, let me show you how to clean it, so it doesn't lose the seasoning.”
Instead, I got the hipster femme biznatch that decided to do a scene from Stomp in the kitchen. Newsflash Andy, I don't read Morse code. But I sure do know lots of interesting symbols and gestures of my own that I would be happy to show you next time you throw a tantrum in the kitchen.
To quote Jenelope from that classic piece of cinema, Bring It On, “You been touched by an angel, girl.”
Anyone that has lived with me, that I have dated, or that is related to me knows that waking me from a nap is dangerous and that waking me from a nap for some bullshit has a direct mathematical relationship to the waker's continued good health. Andy is truly blessed that my love of Taylour and her continued ability to cover rent outweighed my desire to take a cheese slicer and peel Andy's face into thin slivers and feed them to Taylour's dog Cooper.
Let me explain how I came to this conclusion. This afternoon, I was attempting to take a nap on a languid early summer day in Madison. Taylour's apartment looks out over Lake Mendota. The vista combined with 45 minutes of canoing earlier in the afternoon and a tasty lunch had given me the -itis (for more information on the -itis please see Aaron McGruder's Boondocks). I had settled down on the Green Pleather Couch (aka my bed away from home when I visit the office in Madison) only to be awakened by the irate slamming of the microwave door, the bathroom door, several cabinets, and a plethora of pots and pans. Thus returned Andy.
Andy is Taylour's special needs roommate. In general, he is a likable guy. He is fairly quiet, and he is prone to passive aggressive fits of preschool playground behavior. I rose from my nap, and tip-toed into the kitchen. I knew that Andy had often gone nuclear on Taylour over a stray dish left in the sink. So, I ran water in my rice pot and into the wok and jumped in the shower with the intention of cleaning the dishes after I emerged. As I was toweling off, I was again aurally assaulted by another round of slamming and banging dishes and pots and pans followed by the crash of the kitchen door being flung open and slammed shut.
I emerged from the bathroom, this time, ready to cut a bitch in the throat. I looked in the kitchen to find the wok was missing. Then, a moment later, Taylour entered. I was hoping that she had temporarily gone crazy and had been the one slamming things around. Alas, it was too much for which to hope.
“Andy is mad because you put soap in his wok,” she said shrugging and looking apologetic for his asinine behavior.
“Andy needs to grow the hell up and stop slamming shit around like he was on the playground and the girls wouldn't let him play jump rope with them,” I said.
Turns out, to compound the situation, Andy was drunk. Drunk at 5pm on a Monday....GO ANDY GO (I am a little bit jealous). But, drunk or no, I expect anyone over the age of say 18 that has a full time job and a college degree to be able to knock on the bathroom door and say, “hey...you shouldn't put soap in the wok, let me show you how to clean it, so it doesn't lose the seasoning.”
Instead, I got the hipster femme biznatch that decided to do a scene from Stomp in the kitchen. Newsflash Andy, I don't read Morse code. But I sure do know lots of interesting symbols and gestures of my own that I would be happy to show you next time you throw a tantrum in the kitchen.
To quote Jenelope from that classic piece of cinema, Bring It On, “You been touched by an angel, girl.”
Anyone that has lived with me, that I have dated, or that is related to me knows that waking me from a nap is dangerous and that waking me from a nap for some bullshit has a direct mathematical relationship to the waker's continued good health. Andy is truly blessed that my love of Taylour and her continued ability to cover rent outweighed my desire to take a cheese slicer and peel Andy's face into thin slivers and feed them to Taylour's dog Cooper.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Accountability is not just for Accountants!
Accountability has become a big deal for me. At times in my life, I have run away from accountability or any situation in which I felt that I would be held accountable. Even now, I do not relish being held accountable for the stupid things that I still, from time to time, do. But, I am making a concentrated effort, particularly in my work life, volunteer life, and in my relationships, to be accountable and to hold the people I care about accountable.
Accountability to me is not a prejorative term. I believe that when I am held accountable (no matter how much I hate it) I am being helped to grow and become a better person. Now I have been on the receiving end of negative emotional fueled accountability, and I have been the recipient of loving accountability. The type of accountability that I am talking about and support is loving accountability...loving accountability is a process in which the humanity, fallibility, and worth of the person you are holding accountable is forefront in the accountability process.
Today, I had two interactions that have made me think about accountability. I received a rather terse email from an individual with whom, in the past, I have only had pleasant and mutual respectful interactions. But, our last few interactions have been characterized on his part by a cold, standoffish bitchiness that caught me off guard. So, today, I responded to his email with a gentle response and brought up to him that I had noticed a change in our interactions and that if there was something for which I needed to be held accountable to please bring it to my attention. He wrote back another short and snippy email that was briefly accusatory (he said I do not follow through with my promises), and I responded explaining what I knew of the promise I made (to attend a series of meetings when I could) and explaining also that I had started a new job in late winter which meant that I could not attend any meetings. I then asked him if there was something else to which I had committed myself for which I did not follow through. He responded with silence.
The second interaction I had came just this evening while attending the kick-ass Allies for Justice dinner. Lately, the board of directors of Headwaters has been engaged in some very emotional and complicated decision making processes around a range of issues. The processes involved have sometimes been less than ideal, including a process that happened earlier this week. A board member that I highly respect, in my opinion, dropped the ball in such a way that it caused more complications in an already complicated process. Avoiding Minnesota Nice, I called her immediately, expressed my concerns in a voicemail, and I asked her to return my phone call so we could discuss the matter further. She chose not to return my phone call and then, tonight, when I saw her in person, she gave me the cold shoulder as well. In this situation, I was taken by surprise, particularly since I was the one that had asked her to be accountable. I greeted her warmly, and she responded in a way that I thought was far far beneath her.
In both circumstances I was dealing with individuals far older than myself that were acting like people half my age. Both are members of the social justice community in Minneapolis and both are queer. We belong to a small community in which these sorts of issues become wedges that keep us from working together...when...in reality...in case one: I offered to be accountable if necessary and that offer was ignored, and in case two: I asked for her accountability and that was also ignored. In both situations I was not interested in somene being right and someone being wrong. I was (and still am) interested in a dialogue that allows all folks involved to express their feelings and to figure out how to acknowledge the situation, rememdy it, and begin the process of rebuilding trust and relationships.
I am not saint. I fuck up constantly. And I also have done exactly what these two folks did today. So please read that I am in no way offering myself as an example of the meritorious human being that always does the right thing and is ready to own up to his shit at all times. That is far from the mark. But I do feel, that when someone offers you a chance to reconcile and move on that it should be a no brainer that you do the brief work to figure things out instead of creating more drama and more issues that will, most likely, need to be addressed one way or the other.
Accountability to me is not a prejorative term. I believe that when I am held accountable (no matter how much I hate it) I am being helped to grow and become a better person. Now I have been on the receiving end of negative emotional fueled accountability, and I have been the recipient of loving accountability. The type of accountability that I am talking about and support is loving accountability...loving accountability is a process in which the humanity, fallibility, and worth of the person you are holding accountable is forefront in the accountability process.
Today, I had two interactions that have made me think about accountability. I received a rather terse email from an individual with whom, in the past, I have only had pleasant and mutual respectful interactions. But, our last few interactions have been characterized on his part by a cold, standoffish bitchiness that caught me off guard. So, today, I responded to his email with a gentle response and brought up to him that I had noticed a change in our interactions and that if there was something for which I needed to be held accountable to please bring it to my attention. He wrote back another short and snippy email that was briefly accusatory (he said I do not follow through with my promises), and I responded explaining what I knew of the promise I made (to attend a series of meetings when I could) and explaining also that I had started a new job in late winter which meant that I could not attend any meetings. I then asked him if there was something else to which I had committed myself for which I did not follow through. He responded with silence.
The second interaction I had came just this evening while attending the kick-ass Allies for Justice dinner. Lately, the board of directors of Headwaters has been engaged in some very emotional and complicated decision making processes around a range of issues. The processes involved have sometimes been less than ideal, including a process that happened earlier this week. A board member that I highly respect, in my opinion, dropped the ball in such a way that it caused more complications in an already complicated process. Avoiding Minnesota Nice, I called her immediately, expressed my concerns in a voicemail, and I asked her to return my phone call so we could discuss the matter further. She chose not to return my phone call and then, tonight, when I saw her in person, she gave me the cold shoulder as well. In this situation, I was taken by surprise, particularly since I was the one that had asked her to be accountable. I greeted her warmly, and she responded in a way that I thought was far far beneath her.
In both circumstances I was dealing with individuals far older than myself that were acting like people half my age. Both are members of the social justice community in Minneapolis and both are queer. We belong to a small community in which these sorts of issues become wedges that keep us from working together...when...in reality...in case one: I offered to be accountable if necessary and that offer was ignored, and in case two: I asked for her accountability and that was also ignored. In both situations I was not interested in somene being right and someone being wrong. I was (and still am) interested in a dialogue that allows all folks involved to express their feelings and to figure out how to acknowledge the situation, rememdy it, and begin the process of rebuilding trust and relationships.
I am not saint. I fuck up constantly. And I also have done exactly what these two folks did today. So please read that I am in no way offering myself as an example of the meritorious human being that always does the right thing and is ready to own up to his shit at all times. That is far from the mark. But I do feel, that when someone offers you a chance to reconcile and move on that it should be a no brainer that you do the brief work to figure things out instead of creating more drama and more issues that will, most likely, need to be addressed one way or the other.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Bookin' It II: Writing Boogaloo
So, I am in the middle of the fifth chapter of my as of yet unnamed book. As I am writing this bad boy, I have found myself in a constant struggle not only with being as true as possible to a set of circumstances from which, at this point, I am more than 12 years and a thousand miles distant but also with a litany that keeps cycling through my brain...why are you writing this...who cares...is anyone going to read this...is this funny enough...is this too funny...can you write a memoir this way....is there a right way...how the hell do you get a damn book published...you are dumb if you think anyone is going to publish this...when should I let folks start reading chapters to provide feedback. The list seems to go on ad infinitum.
I have found, though, that even with the struggles that come with writing the book, I am loving it. I am loving the process, I am loving the challenge, and I am loving forcing myself to delve into memories of perhaps one of the most turbulent times of my life (and for those that have known me...I can count the non-turbulent times on one foot). I have decided that the scope of the book is going to go from my sophomore year of college at Warren Wilson through my trip to Puerto Rico as a senior at the University of Minnesota. In the grand epochs of my life...it seems my life has naturally broken itself into various ages...birth to junior high...high school to the end of my freshmen year of college....my sophomore year of college up to my trip to Puerto Rico and my return to North Carolina...my return to Minnesota in 2001 to 2003 and the entrance of HIV into my world....2003 to Albuquerque and my return from Albuquerque to the present time. Good lord, that is a lot of subdivisions for a guy that is only 30 years old. At least I know that if this book sells, I have at least a good five or six more I can put out, and perhaps by the time those are done a new chapter in my life history will have been completed, so I can keep the paychecks coming.
Actually, writing this book has been a great exercise, and it has rekindled my love for great speculative fiction. I wrote a play a couple of years ago now about a vampire, since childhood I have read anything and everything I could get my hands on concerning vampires, and I have seen just about every major vampire flick from the early 80s forward (plus the original Dracula and snippets of Nosferatu). I love vampires, I love Anne Rice's vampires, I love Bram Stoker's vampires, I love Joss Whedon's vampires, and I think that the next project (see me always thinking ahead) is going to be my own take on the vampire legends. But, you know, I haven't finished the book I am currently working on.
Writing is such a beautiful beautiful thing. Folks have complimented me on my writing. And I have deeply appreciated those compliments, but I feel as if my ability to write is akin to someone that can sing their butt off, or is a piano virtuoso...there is hard work that goes into developing the talent, but, in the end, it is a genetic predisposition that resulted from the luck of the draw. Some people can see a piece a woman in a piece of marble, and I just see marble. The key, for me, is encouraging everyone to find their gifts and to explore them and share them and appreciate them as well. And I appreciate the opportunity to share my gifts, and hard work, with those around me. And, if by chance, someone gets laughter, joy, a good cry, or an aha moment from something I've written, then all the better.
I have found, though, that even with the struggles that come with writing the book, I am loving it. I am loving the process, I am loving the challenge, and I am loving forcing myself to delve into memories of perhaps one of the most turbulent times of my life (and for those that have known me...I can count the non-turbulent times on one foot). I have decided that the scope of the book is going to go from my sophomore year of college at Warren Wilson through my trip to Puerto Rico as a senior at the University of Minnesota. In the grand epochs of my life...it seems my life has naturally broken itself into various ages...birth to junior high...high school to the end of my freshmen year of college....my sophomore year of college up to my trip to Puerto Rico and my return to North Carolina...my return to Minnesota in 2001 to 2003 and the entrance of HIV into my world....2003 to Albuquerque and my return from Albuquerque to the present time. Good lord, that is a lot of subdivisions for a guy that is only 30 years old. At least I know that if this book sells, I have at least a good five or six more I can put out, and perhaps by the time those are done a new chapter in my life history will have been completed, so I can keep the paychecks coming.
Actually, writing this book has been a great exercise, and it has rekindled my love for great speculative fiction. I wrote a play a couple of years ago now about a vampire, since childhood I have read anything and everything I could get my hands on concerning vampires, and I have seen just about every major vampire flick from the early 80s forward (plus the original Dracula and snippets of Nosferatu). I love vampires, I love Anne Rice's vampires, I love Bram Stoker's vampires, I love Joss Whedon's vampires, and I think that the next project (see me always thinking ahead) is going to be my own take on the vampire legends. But, you know, I haven't finished the book I am currently working on.
Writing is such a beautiful beautiful thing. Folks have complimented me on my writing. And I have deeply appreciated those compliments, but I feel as if my ability to write is akin to someone that can sing their butt off, or is a piano virtuoso...there is hard work that goes into developing the talent, but, in the end, it is a genetic predisposition that resulted from the luck of the draw. Some people can see a piece a woman in a piece of marble, and I just see marble. The key, for me, is encouraging everyone to find their gifts and to explore them and share them and appreciate them as well. And I appreciate the opportunity to share my gifts, and hard work, with those around me. And, if by chance, someone gets laughter, joy, a good cry, or an aha moment from something I've written, then all the better.
Monday, May 19, 2008
We Are Family...
Family is a powerful creature. I spend exactly a quarter of the time wondering how the hell I survived growing up, another quarter time wishing I had a better relationship with my siblings, and the rest of the time I very simply love my family.
Last weekend, my family gathered to throw a fundraiser for my kick ass cousin Jim, who is a leukemia survivor and just had an experimental surgery involving a transplant of stem cells from his brother into his body...which has been amazing. His body not only has recovered, but, because of the stem cell transplant, Jim is no longer an indentifcal twin. He received the stem cell transplant from his older brother, Joe, and he now has Joe's blood type and will most likely develop Joe's food and plant allergies. Weird.
As I have been hanging out with my uber awesome niece Shayla and my little cousins Lonnie David, Danielle, and Edison James, I was struck that truly a new familial generation has arrived. Because Shayla is the oldest and calls me Uncle Billy her cousins have also taken to calling me Uncle Billy as well. Technically, Shayla is my niece, Lonnie david and Danielle are my first cousins, and Edison James is my first cousin once removed (the son of my cousin Ed). It is rather personally funny for me because I refer to my Dad's cousin with whom he was raised, my Aunty Bev, as Aunt Bev...and my other brothers and sisters also referred to Aunty Bev's sister Sharon as Aunty Sharon. I can actually remember when Sharon and her brother Vincent stilled lived at home with their Mother, so I call them by their first names. Family is fluid and funny.
One of my best memories from this weekend, besides nearly a hundred relatives and their friends coming together to raise thousands of dollars for my cousin Jim (at a honky tonk bar in Rice Lake, MN with my second cousin once removed's 70s rock cover band playing “Sweet Home Alabama), was of my little cousin Lonnie David. Lonnie is just shy of his third birthday and he is learning to be potty trained. Well, at one point, he went to the bathroom like a big boy (aka had peed in his baby pot). I was walking past the bathroom, and this adorable little brown boy rushes out of the bathroom and says,
“Uncle Billy, give me high five.”
So I give him a high five.
“Uncle Billy, give me a kiss!”
So I give him a kiss.
“Yuck!” He says and wipes his face giggling.
I was dying of laughter at that point. The kid has impeccably comedic timing, and in a family where sarcasm is a genetically inherited trait that boy is gonna give Margaret Cho a run for her money.
The other golden moment of the weekend was the night I spent at my Aunt Susie's house. Aunt Susie has always been an early riser. The new house that my Uncle Joe built her is fairly open. Two of my cousins and I had slept on the second floor in the loft/office area. So voices from the living room carried easily upstairs. Since I was so far north that it was too cold for Jesus to visit for most of the year, the sun comes up about as soon as it sets in the summertime. So, I woke up Sunday morning to a chorus of voices and laughter. And then I hear the overdeveloped, uberpowerful longs of my two year old cousin Edison James shout, “Is Uncle Billy still sleeping?”
I took this as my cue that I must have slept in ridiculously late. I come down the stairs, contacts scratching my eyeballs, and I see my Aunt Sue frying sausages in the kitchen. The sun is up and everyone else is sitting in the living room. I ask Aunt Sue, “What time is it.”
“It's getting' late. Twenty past six!” She said it with such wicked delight, that I screwed up my face, grabbed a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie and said, “You people are sick. I'm going back to bed.”
I then lumbered up the stairs and laid back down until eight.
Family is something else. Our is as dysfunctional as most, better than some, and worse than others...but when it comes down to it...we are like the Irish Clans of old...you fuck with one of us...you fuck with all of us...so you better bring your shillelagh or your stem cells, cuz it's on.
Last weekend, my family gathered to throw a fundraiser for my kick ass cousin Jim, who is a leukemia survivor and just had an experimental surgery involving a transplant of stem cells from his brother into his body...which has been amazing. His body not only has recovered, but, because of the stem cell transplant, Jim is no longer an indentifcal twin. He received the stem cell transplant from his older brother, Joe, and he now has Joe's blood type and will most likely develop Joe's food and plant allergies. Weird.
As I have been hanging out with my uber awesome niece Shayla and my little cousins Lonnie David, Danielle, and Edison James, I was struck that truly a new familial generation has arrived. Because Shayla is the oldest and calls me Uncle Billy her cousins have also taken to calling me Uncle Billy as well. Technically, Shayla is my niece, Lonnie david and Danielle are my first cousins, and Edison James is my first cousin once removed (the son of my cousin Ed). It is rather personally funny for me because I refer to my Dad's cousin with whom he was raised, my Aunty Bev, as Aunt Bev...and my other brothers and sisters also referred to Aunty Bev's sister Sharon as Aunty Sharon. I can actually remember when Sharon and her brother Vincent stilled lived at home with their Mother, so I call them by their first names. Family is fluid and funny.
One of my best memories from this weekend, besides nearly a hundred relatives and their friends coming together to raise thousands of dollars for my cousin Jim (at a honky tonk bar in Rice Lake, MN with my second cousin once removed's 70s rock cover band playing “Sweet Home Alabama), was of my little cousin Lonnie David. Lonnie is just shy of his third birthday and he is learning to be potty trained. Well, at one point, he went to the bathroom like a big boy (aka had peed in his baby pot). I was walking past the bathroom, and this adorable little brown boy rushes out of the bathroom and says,
“Uncle Billy, give me high five.”
So I give him a high five.
“Uncle Billy, give me a kiss!”
So I give him a kiss.
“Yuck!” He says and wipes his face giggling.
I was dying of laughter at that point. The kid has impeccably comedic timing, and in a family where sarcasm is a genetically inherited trait that boy is gonna give Margaret Cho a run for her money.
The other golden moment of the weekend was the night I spent at my Aunt Susie's house. Aunt Susie has always been an early riser. The new house that my Uncle Joe built her is fairly open. Two of my cousins and I had slept on the second floor in the loft/office area. So voices from the living room carried easily upstairs. Since I was so far north that it was too cold for Jesus to visit for most of the year, the sun comes up about as soon as it sets in the summertime. So, I woke up Sunday morning to a chorus of voices and laughter. And then I hear the overdeveloped, uberpowerful longs of my two year old cousin Edison James shout, “Is Uncle Billy still sleeping?”
I took this as my cue that I must have slept in ridiculously late. I come down the stairs, contacts scratching my eyeballs, and I see my Aunt Sue frying sausages in the kitchen. The sun is up and everyone else is sitting in the living room. I ask Aunt Sue, “What time is it.”
“It's getting' late. Twenty past six!” She said it with such wicked delight, that I screwed up my face, grabbed a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie and said, “You people are sick. I'm going back to bed.”
I then lumbered up the stairs and laid back down until eight.
Family is something else. Our is as dysfunctional as most, better than some, and worse than others...but when it comes down to it...we are like the Irish Clans of old...you fuck with one of us...you fuck with all of us...so you better bring your shillelagh or your stem cells, cuz it's on.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Please and Thank You
What the hell ever happened to please and thank you? Now, don't get me wrong, I am no Miss Manners. But growing up, I was taught that when you bumped into someone or otherwise invaded someone's personal space by proximity or accident, you said “excuse me.” When you were given a gift or someone gifted you with an act of kindness (holding a door open, etc.) you said thank you. And, when you asked for something, even if you are paying for it, you say please. Common courtesy goes a hell of a long way.
Now maybe because I have been spending a bit of time in New York lately, I am finding myself on edge, but I swear to God the Father, his Son Jesus, their pal the Holy Ghost, Mary Magdalene, Mary Mother of God, and Maria Fuentes the tranny working girl from down the block, if one more person is unnecessarily rude to me, I am going to go Miss Manners Commando and start cutting bitches with impunity.
The latest rude moment I encountered was perhaps the single most perfect walking and talking example of irony I have ever experienced. I was sitting on my return flight from New York to Minneapolis and the flight attendants parked their goodie cart right by my seat. Now I was attempting to sleep as was the gentlemen in front of me. And the guy across the aisle from me was trying to read his book. The female flight attendant is talking in the loudest most obnoxious New York accented English possible telling the male flight attendant about a rude experience she had with a passenger that was yelling at her in Spanish because she did not speak French and they were on a flight to Paris. The female flight attendant was going on and on and on about how rude this woman was being all the while not giving a good two shits that she was running her damn mouth at decible levels that usually require a permit.
If it wasn't likely to get me shot by an air marshall in our post 9-11 travel world, I would have gotten up and shoved a pair of my dookie stained underwear from my carry on bag in her mouth. If you are going to embrace diarrhea of the mouth, then I am going to help you experience it literally. I absolutely love New York, but I do not love the lack of manners. Maybe I am getting a little more Midwestern as I age, but I just can not see any excuse for not engaging and respecting your fellow movers through life with a little basic respect. I mean, we all screw up now and again. We all have bad days once in a while. But, I refuse to believe that ten million people are living such rough lives that they are at BitchCon Delta 24/7.
Don Miguel in the Four Agreements says to not taking anything personally. Lord I am trying, but some of the folks with whom I have interacted lately would push Ghandi to consider mass murder. Namaste ya'll. Namaste.
Now maybe because I have been spending a bit of time in New York lately, I am finding myself on edge, but I swear to God the Father, his Son Jesus, their pal the Holy Ghost, Mary Magdalene, Mary Mother of God, and Maria Fuentes the tranny working girl from down the block, if one more person is unnecessarily rude to me, I am going to go Miss Manners Commando and start cutting bitches with impunity.
The latest rude moment I encountered was perhaps the single most perfect walking and talking example of irony I have ever experienced. I was sitting on my return flight from New York to Minneapolis and the flight attendants parked their goodie cart right by my seat. Now I was attempting to sleep as was the gentlemen in front of me. And the guy across the aisle from me was trying to read his book. The female flight attendant is talking in the loudest most obnoxious New York accented English possible telling the male flight attendant about a rude experience she had with a passenger that was yelling at her in Spanish because she did not speak French and they were on a flight to Paris. The female flight attendant was going on and on and on about how rude this woman was being all the while not giving a good two shits that she was running her damn mouth at decible levels that usually require a permit.
If it wasn't likely to get me shot by an air marshall in our post 9-11 travel world, I would have gotten up and shoved a pair of my dookie stained underwear from my carry on bag in her mouth. If you are going to embrace diarrhea of the mouth, then I am going to help you experience it literally. I absolutely love New York, but I do not love the lack of manners. Maybe I am getting a little more Midwestern as I age, but I just can not see any excuse for not engaging and respecting your fellow movers through life with a little basic respect. I mean, we all screw up now and again. We all have bad days once in a while. But, I refuse to believe that ten million people are living such rough lives that they are at BitchCon Delta 24/7.
Don Miguel in the Four Agreements says to not taking anything personally. Lord I am trying, but some of the folks with whom I have interacted lately would push Ghandi to consider mass murder. Namaste ya'll. Namaste.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Political One Liner of the Week Award
Last summer I started a tradition of awarding the One Liner of the Week Award. This award was granted to a member of the Slammers (my softball team) that came up with the wittiest line during the week.
Tonight I start a new tradition: The Political One Liner of the Week Award. The first ever recipient of this award is Taylour Johnson...aka Tay Tay Begay...aka Little Chicken. Taylour recieves this award for the line:
"We are on stolen land. We stole people to come till our stolen land. And we built 'our' (white people) democracy because of 'our' (white people) theft. "
Congratulations Taylour...u put the sass in USASS.
Tonight I start a new tradition: The Political One Liner of the Week Award. The first ever recipient of this award is Taylour Johnson...aka Tay Tay Begay...aka Little Chicken. Taylour recieves this award for the line:
"We are on stolen land. We stole people to come till our stolen land. And we built 'our' (white people) democracy because of 'our' (white people) theft. "
Congratulations Taylour...u put the sass in USASS.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Lube It Up
Saturday night I did something I never even slightly imagined myself doing even in one of my porn quality wet dreams: lube wrestling.I love my softball team. The Slammers are the provebial shit. I decided not to play this summer as I am strictly enforcing the Mary J. Blidge Rule: No More Drama. When coach told me that there were gurls from the team that had issues with me, I decided not to go back to junior high. If you have a problem with me, tell me. If not, it is actually your problem and not mine. There is nothing I can do about an issue if it is not brought to my attention. A bitch might look like Miss Cleo's mixed grandbaby, but psychic I am not. And though I be Minnesotan born and bred, I am committed to leaving Minnesota nice behind and dealing with people face to face.
I love my friends, and I respect my friends, and I love my friends enough to tell them when they have pissed me off, hurt me, or made me happy. That is the mark of a true friend, someone that is not just there for the good shit but for the bad shit and they let you have your shit and hold you accountable for it. As I told my good friends David Cobb and Patrick Barrett..."I am going to fuck up. It is my hope that when I fuck up that you afford me the graciousness of holding me accountable and letting me make amends. And I will afford you that same grace." The Golden Rule is great but when the Golden Rule is broken apply the Golden Principle: Allow Others to Be as Human as You Are.
But anyone, I digress, Saturday night, in support of my softball team, I allowed myself to be stripped half naked in public (for those of you that know me...I DO NOT ALLOW MY BACKFAT TO SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY...ESPECIALLY STROBE LIGHTS). Hoppe, my teammate, and I were lubed up and had two minutes to go at it. After about one minute, I was out of breath and hoping desperately that Hoppe would pin my ass so that I could put my clothes back on. It didn't help that I had just come directly form Melissa Tangye's graduation party and had gorged myself on fried chicken, teriyaki chicken, and grilled chicken. Basically, if a chicken clucked anywhere in a ten mile vicinity, I had eaten it that evening. Add to that several glasses of reisling, a plate of pasta salad, two slices of homemade pizza, and two rum and cokes...and I left the ring, showered, got dressed, went to the bathroom and threw the hell up. Hoppe bruised my tonsils, and I spent the next half an hour convinced that pro-wrestlings must be secretly anorexic.
It was a fucking blast.
I love my people. I love my Slammers. And though I can not be as present as I would like to be, I am present when I can be. Though this winter I was going through some things, was sick as hell on several occassions, and had a minor break down, I still show up when it matters. Whether it is buying a table at an event to support New York and Isha Mae, going to a Hawai'in concert with Titi, or getting slathered in ID lube and then having my ass kicked publicly, I show up for the people I care about in ways that matter.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Bookin' It
I have led a very interesting life for someone that has not yet finished out his 30th year of living. For a person that grew up poor and at times near homelessness, I have seen and done quite a bit, less than many but more than most. I have, because of luck or the love of friends, been a part of some moments that will most likely be talked about in history books one day: the first Day of Silence, the first Youth Pride in DC, part of the planning committee for the first U.S. Social Forum, etc. I have also lived through some shit. And done some shit. Some of which I am proud of some of which I am deeply not proud.
As I look back at the last thirty years of life, look at my life now, and continue with my commitment to maintain my joy and strictly apply the Mary J. Blige Rule: No More Drama, I am trying to systematically revist my memories and those experiences that, at least at this point in my life, I believe have done much to shape who I am, where I've gone, and the choices (good and bad) that I have made.
A couple of weeks ago, I started writing a book. I have started many a book in the past. The furthest I had ever gotten before was two perhaps three pages. As of this evening I am in the middle of the third chapter and some twenty or so pages into the project. The book starts off shortly after I turned 19 with a trip I took with some friends to Washington DC to see the AIDS Memorial Quilt the last time that it was fully displayed. In the narrative of my life, particularly now as an HIV positive adult, that experience was and continues to be important. I am writing the book as a memoir. It is creative non-fiction that uses a sassy humor that I hope will both examine personal and collective experiences and help me better understand who I am.
Writing this book has been both liberating and terrifying. There are narratives that I have told to myself and to others that have not always been the most honest and truthful. But, the stories that I have told myself are the ones that I needed to tell in order to get me through. But, as I look back over time and at my failure to face my own shortcomings or my downplaying the choicies of others and the impact of those choices on my life, I see how I have sold myself short and robbed myself of the honest self-evaluation that leads to growth.
Yesterday I went for a walk with Titi around Southdale Mall. Titi is a brilliant man. One of those rare individuals that is honest and tough and you know, even as he is breaking you down, that he is doing so because of love. Titi has let me have it on a couple of occassions. With most folks, I immediately get defensive...Titi's approach to accountability is one that is forthright and pre-emptively disarms those self-defense instincts. As we were talking yesterday, about a range of topics, I mentioned to him how as I have been writing and finishing drafts of chapters, I have found myself going back and re-reading, re-writing, and going deeper into the experiences that I have had.
Titi had some wisdom to share over Dairy Queen blizzards. Titi explained it to me like this, he said that our brains are built to defend us from particular emotions and experiences. Sometimes we are unable to access those experiences because we are not ready to face the reality of what was really going on. But, he said, as we lay down, through writing or whatever, those experiences, each time our brain allows us to add another layer of perception and understanding. As we grow and face that which we need to face, we are able to deepen our memory and, thusly, our interaction with the truth of our experiences.
As I write about some beautiful and tough experiences in my life, I hope that I am able to maintain the bravery necessary to make this more than just a ra-ra to me. Without being morose, I want to be able to critically look at my life, a life that has, without a doubt, been full of humor even at its ugliest moments. I want to be able to show my humanity while still maintaining a joyful engagement with the comedy of errors that is living. And, also, as I tap into the feelings that I have held on to for far too long, it is my hope that I can release them on to the pages and out into the world. Holding on to the lessons of life is necessary, holding on to the hurt is not.
As I look back at the last thirty years of life, look at my life now, and continue with my commitment to maintain my joy and strictly apply the Mary J. Blige Rule: No More Drama, I am trying to systematically revist my memories and those experiences that, at least at this point in my life, I believe have done much to shape who I am, where I've gone, and the choices (good and bad) that I have made.
A couple of weeks ago, I started writing a book. I have started many a book in the past. The furthest I had ever gotten before was two perhaps three pages. As of this evening I am in the middle of the third chapter and some twenty or so pages into the project. The book starts off shortly after I turned 19 with a trip I took with some friends to Washington DC to see the AIDS Memorial Quilt the last time that it was fully displayed. In the narrative of my life, particularly now as an HIV positive adult, that experience was and continues to be important. I am writing the book as a memoir. It is creative non-fiction that uses a sassy humor that I hope will both examine personal and collective experiences and help me better understand who I am.
Writing this book has been both liberating and terrifying. There are narratives that I have told to myself and to others that have not always been the most honest and truthful. But, the stories that I have told myself are the ones that I needed to tell in order to get me through. But, as I look back over time and at my failure to face my own shortcomings or my downplaying the choicies of others and the impact of those choices on my life, I see how I have sold myself short and robbed myself of the honest self-evaluation that leads to growth.
Yesterday I went for a walk with Titi around Southdale Mall. Titi is a brilliant man. One of those rare individuals that is honest and tough and you know, even as he is breaking you down, that he is doing so because of love. Titi has let me have it on a couple of occassions. With most folks, I immediately get defensive...Titi's approach to accountability is one that is forthright and pre-emptively disarms those self-defense instincts. As we were talking yesterday, about a range of topics, I mentioned to him how as I have been writing and finishing drafts of chapters, I have found myself going back and re-reading, re-writing, and going deeper into the experiences that I have had.
Titi had some wisdom to share over Dairy Queen blizzards. Titi explained it to me like this, he said that our brains are built to defend us from particular emotions and experiences. Sometimes we are unable to access those experiences because we are not ready to face the reality of what was really going on. But, he said, as we lay down, through writing or whatever, those experiences, each time our brain allows us to add another layer of perception and understanding. As we grow and face that which we need to face, we are able to deepen our memory and, thusly, our interaction with the truth of our experiences.
As I write about some beautiful and tough experiences in my life, I hope that I am able to maintain the bravery necessary to make this more than just a ra-ra to me. Without being morose, I want to be able to critically look at my life, a life that has, without a doubt, been full of humor even at its ugliest moments. I want to be able to show my humanity while still maintaining a joyful engagement with the comedy of errors that is living. And, also, as I tap into the feelings that I have held on to for far too long, it is my hope that I can release them on to the pages and out into the world. Holding on to the lessons of life is necessary, holding on to the hurt is not.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
DEMOCRACY DAY PRESS RELEASE!
###FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE###
May 1, 2008
Contact: Brandon Lacy Campos, Associate Director
Organization: Liberty Tree Foundation
Phone: 612-408-7375 Email: blc@libertytreefdr.org
Website: http://www.claimdemocracy.org/
Organization: Liberty Tree Foundation
Phone: 612-408-7375 Email: blc@libertytreefdr.org
Website: http://www.claimdemocracy.org/
HUNDREDS OF PRO-DEMOCRACY & ELECTION REFORM
ADVOCATES TO CONVENE IN MINNEAPOLIS THIS SUMMER
ADVOCATES TO CONVENE IN MINNEAPOLIS THIS SUMMER
Exclusive Media Access for Speakers at Democracy Day conference,
to be Held in Conjunction with the National Conference on Media Reform
to be Held in Conjunction with the National Conference on Media Reform
MINNEAPOLIS, MN - On June 5, 2008 hundreds of democracy activists and organizers will gather for Democracy Day, a one-day gathering organized in conjunction with the National Conference on Media Reform. Democracy Day is a joint project of the Liberty Tree Foundation, FairVote, Public Campaign and Common Cause with support from local partners FairVote MN, Verified Voting, TakeAction Minnesota and the Center for Election Integrity Minnesota. This one day conference will take place at the Minneapolis Hilton from 9:00am-7:00pm. Registration information can be found at http://www.claimdemocracy.org/. Complimentary registration for members of the media can be obtained by calling Ross Margulies, FairVote Development Director, at 301.270.4616.
Former Congressman Dr. Bob Edgar (D-PA), Executive Director of Washington, D.C. based Common Cause, stated that, “While every day should be Democracy Day in America, this conference provides a special opportunity for activists and experts to come together and strengthen the movement for self-government in our country.”
In the run-up to the upcoming presidential elections, the Democracy Day conference will include workshops addressing electoral reform, instant runoff voting, election integrity and protection, student unionism, and a host of other visionary work aimed at expanding, deepening, broadening, and protecting U.S. democracy.
Featured speakers include:
- Secretary of State Mark Ritchie (D-MN),
- Radio Host Amy Goodman,
- The Nation Columnist John Nichols,
- Author Walter Mosley,
- Former Nirvana bassist Krist Novoselic,
- Former Presidential candidate David Cobb (G-CA),
- And other leaders in the national democracy movement.
Please inquire about opportunities to schedule interviews with any speakers during the conference.
FairVote MN Executive Director Jeanne Massey said, “Now more than ever we need to be fully and deeply engaged in a discussion around the future of our Democracy. For eight years we have watched our democratic institutions attacked and weakened, but, here in Minnesota with passage of instant runoff voting in Minneapolis in 2006 and the St. Paul IRV campaign in 2008, we are committed to expanding democracy. It is right that the first Democracy Day conference is held here.”
The conference is a continuation of the work of the Claim Democracy Coalition, which is a national coalition spearheaded by FairVote which held the Claim Democracy Conference in November 2007 in Washington, DC.
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