BACK IT UP!

so.  here’s the news for today.  BACK IT UP!  yesterday i lost all of my writing, photos, work stuff, resume, etc. on my computer.  why?  because my computer had a cricket in it (i.e. the hardrive crashed) and i did not back my stuff up.  so, don’t repeat my mistake, get an external hardrive and BACK IT UP.

oh and if you use a “portable computer,” as they call it at the Mac store, after you close your computer for it to sleep, don’t move it until the light that is on the front (not the top) of the computer starts pulsating.  Think of it like the shaken computer syndrome.  The computer is moving all of the information from ram to the hardrive and it gets disoriented when you move it while it’s working.  apparently it’s all in the manual.  i guess a number of people have been having their harddrives crash and one of the reasons for it is the shaken computer syndrome (not the real term, but i like it).  so play nice with your ‘portable computer’ and make sure the BACK IT UP.

Ya Basta Collective!

Just joined this group: The Ya Basta Collective’s free online writing workshop for girls, women, and gender-non-conforming folks of color on war, militarization and violence in conjunction with the themes of their anthology.  So we’re supposed to write a poem a week, so y’all will have to give me feedback on the poems I write.  For now, we were given the task to share some of the poems and writings that have inspired us and I am posting a few of the ones that other people posted because they are truly inspiring.  Injoy!

—

We begin by speaking directly to the deaths and disappointments. Here
we begin to fill in the spaces of silence between us. For it is
between these seemingly irreconcilable lines- the class lines, the
politically correct lines, the daily lines we run down each other to
keep difference and desire at a distance- that the truth of our
connection lies. -Cherrie Moraga

—

from Ai:

Cuba, 1962

When the rooster jumps up on the windowsill
and spreads his red-gold wings,
I wake, thinking it is the sun
and call Juanita, hearing her answer,
but only in my mind.
I know she is already outside,
breaking the cane off at ground level,
using only her big hands.
I get the machete and walk among the cane,
until I see her, lying face-down in the dirt.

Juanita, dead in the morning like this.
I raise the machete—
what I take from the earth, I give back—
and cut off her feet.
I lift the body and carry it to the wagon,
where I load the cane to sell in the village.
Whoever tastes my woman in his candy, his cake,
tastes something sweeter than this sugar cane;
it is grief.
If you eat too much of it, you want more,
you can never get enough.

—
Affirmation

I believe in living.
I believe in the spectrum
of Beta days and Gamma people.
I believe in sunshine.
In windmills and waterfalls,
tricycles and rocking chairs.
And i believe that seeds grow into sprouts.
And sprouts grow into trees.
I believe in the magic of the hands.
And in the wisdom of the eyes.
I believe in rain and tears.
And in the blood of infinity.

I believe in life.
And i have seen the death parade
march through the torso of the earth,
sculpting mud bodies in its path.
I have seen the destruction of the daylight,
and seen bloodthirsty maggots
prayed to and saluted.

I have seen the kind become the blind
and the blind become the bind
in one easy lesson.
I have walked on cut glass.
I have eaten crow and blunder bread
and breathed the stench of indifference.

I have been locked by the lawless.
Handcuffed by the haters.
Gagged by the greedy.
And, if i know any thing at all,
it’s that a wall is just a wall
and nothing more at all.
It can be broken down.

I believe in living.
I believe in birth.
I believe in the sweat of love
and in the fire of truth.

And i believe that a lost ship,
steered by tired, seasick sailors,
can still be guided home
to port.
–Assata Shakur

—

SECRET TO LIFE IN AMERICA

My brother sits me down and tells me
the secret to life in America.
I’m twelve years old when this happens.
He grabs my shoulders and says:
No one likes an immigrant.
It reminds them of when they fell down
and no one was around to help them.
When they couldn’t talk.
As children when they got lost in public.
Cold and wet, everyone hates an immigrant.

So don’t trust nobody.
The whites, they’ll teach you
to hate yourself for being silent.
They’ll punish you for fighting back.
They’ll love the taste of your food and culture, and sister…
and yet spit you out.

The blacks, at first you’d think they understand loss.
But to them you’re just another cracker with a bad case of jaundice.
Don’t expect shit from them,
they can’t afford to be generous.
Latins laugh at you behind your back.
Do you know this? I’m trying to tell you
how it is in the city,
he says.

I ask my brother if I can go outside now.

No!, he screams. Our father is dead
and now I have to teach you
how to survive
in America.

Fags are everywhere.
And they want you, cuz
to them you’re exotic and cute
and will do all the dirty work.
The Chinese look down on you
for using their alphabet. The Japanese have raped
your women through the centuries
and will do it again. In fact, never
do business with other Asians,
cuz they’re the greediest people alive.
Next to Jews.

Now I’m crying, because my brother
has pulled off his work shirt.

Open your eyes!
This is where that black boy pulled the trigger
over twenty dollars and a candy bar! Here
is where the whites punctured my kidney in a parking lot outside of
Denny’s…
And the Mexicans just kept drinking their beers.
This is the bruise on my soul
where every American girl ever looked at me
like I was still the enemy.
This is where agent orange first set in.
This is where the DMZ line is still drawn!
Taste of barbed wire on my tongue!
See where that fat white teacher called me a freak
for getting a B in math! Feel
my broken immigrant’s throat
that couldn’t tell him to Fuck Off!!!
These are my yellow hands!
This is my cock!
These are my eyes wide open!
This is my heart filled with cigarette smoke!
This my aching back
which brought you here
and buried our father!
This is the cheek mother slapped
for the way that I called her
ignorant.

This is the GQ subscription sister gave me for Christmas.

Here is my blood, which tastes just like tears.
These are my dreams for the future
dead and shriveled in the corner.
This is my broom. This the face
I couldn’t save from myself.
Are you listening to any of this?

Yes, I tell him. I’m listening.

You’re lucky, he says. You’ll go to college
when you grow up.

I don’t know, I tell him.

Work your ass off and move away from this shit hole
out to the suburbs. Maybe marry
a white girl.

I don’t know, I tell him.

Go off and write… poetry.

I won’t, I say.

Yes you will. And when you do,
do me this one favor…

What, I ask.

Lie.
And make our father and me

the heroes…

you always needed us to be

~Ed Bok Lee

The Ocean

Day One in Maine, Conversations in Maine with Grace Lee Boggs and a good portion of my Detroit family.  We stayed on this small island.  Half a mile wide, half a mile long off the coast, in this group of islands called the Cranberry Islands.  Just returned yesterday.  It was beautyfull.  More on it later.  This is the beginning:

I asked Anthony what he wanted me to bring to the ocean and he said that he can always be here.  The ocean is within him.  Grace said that coming to the ocean, being on an island, helps her to be reminded of God.  Of steadiness, of never changing. Always there. ebbing and flowing.

Even as the human world pushes and pulls her-here she finds the world is always as it is and it is only humans that have forgotten who we are.  Because the human world, outside of here-for her-was always on the verge of collaspe, change, evolution, possible revolution-and here-reminded by the ocean and people the coean brings, she is reminded that this evolution and revolution contains all aspects of that which is natural-good and bad and therefore, everything that is human.  Because we hold within us, every aspect of human idenity, emotion, thought-we cannot escape ourselves without destroying a vital element of freedom-which is opportunity to choose ourselves to be free.

And me?  Being amongst people from Detroit, no matter where in the world, grounds me.  My energy in Milwaukee is scattered and chaotic.  Here, I am in Detroit because the people that have called me here are Detroit and they still carry the grit and gleam of the city that so draws me to me.

Here, on the edge of Maine, I sit amongst the ancients.  Stones exposed.  Rings of ocean overing the anceitns, holding all that the ages speak of.  What is given to the water will always return.  Never forgotten-always leaving imprints of the air-moving slightly the molecules of time.  It is only us that wants to say we remember in order to not feel irrelevent.

Here-the seagulls call out my sorrows, each one that has become so embedded that I have forgotten that I have skin.  The tide paints over and the motors and bells make this place real enough to confirm that Anthony is right.  The ocean can always carry me, but it is a blessing to be able to return to her, and be reminded.

The Contract.

The Pact if you but allow her breathe, Lord, I will use all my power to comfort.

The Promise when you call her home, Lord, I will let her go Joy fully.

The Price my vision, so distorted, I see only beauty through tears of sorrow.

My Strength so weakened, I claim only the power of God.  My Heart, so broken, it can contain only Love.

~Katherine

Love for your day.

please bring strange things.
please come bringing new things.
let very old things come into your hands.
let what you do not know come into your eyes.
let desert sand harden your feet.
let the arch of your feet be the mountains.
let the paths of your fingertips be your maps
and the way you go be the lines on your palms.
let there be deep snow in your inbreathing
and your outbreath be the shining of ice.
may your mouth contain the shapes of strange words.
may you smell food cooking you have not eaten.
may the spring of a foreign river be your navel.
may your soul be at home where there are no houses.
walk carefully, well-loved one,
walk mindfully, well-loved one,
walk fearlessly, well-loved one.
return with us, return to us,
be always coming home.

~Ursula K. LeGuin

Words Hit like a Fist

Taken from:

Words Hit like a Fist: http://davehingsburger.blogspot.com/2008/08/words-hit-like-fist.html  (see the blog for the card that he mentions)

Several years ago:

A man with Down Syndrome leaves a movie theatre in Manhattan, a group of young girls come out from a showing of ‘Something About Mary’ flinging the word ‘retard’ around. He freezes, terror crosses his face. They hit him. Hard. Like a fist. I still see his face in my mind.

A year ago:

Shopping at Longo’s just north of the office the produce manager loudly calls one of his staff a retard. I blow up and create a scene. Everyone forgets what the man says and wonders why the fat guy in the wheelchair is being bothersome.

8 months ago:

Staff stops by my office and tells me that on an outing to a food court several teenagers get up and move from their table saying they “Won’t sit next to retards.” Staff is furious but doesn’t know what to do. Creating a scene would embarass those they are there to support. They feel sick. Powerless. Angry.

3 months ago:

In conversation with our self advocate facilitators, I am told that the subject of the word ‘Retard’ came up … a painful discussion follows. Each has been hit. Hard as a fist.

1 month ago:

Two clerks holler back and forth in a store, calling each other retards. I remember the failure at Longo’s … I say nothing. Don’t know what to do.

Then, I thought, “Enough.”

I hear that damned word everywhere. In the mouths of seemingly everyone. It’s like people have forgotten that words have impact, that words can hurt, that words can bruise. It’s like people have forgotten that what comes out of our mouths defines who we are. It’s like people have forgotten that those with intellectual disabilities can feel pain, real pain.

That damned word leaves us helpless. Not knowing what to do or say, wanting to act but not knowing how. I cower at the size of the problem, at the casualness of the prejudice. And yet I have never really confronted it. Never really done anything except to assure that those around me never use the word. Never say it in my presence. But that is not enough, that protects only me.

I wanted to do something. Along with my agency, my executive director, I decided to do something. I sat down and crafted a business card. On one side it read: Words hit like a fist! On the other side it says:When you use words like “R#tard” or “R#tarded” it hurts people, I heard you and it hurt me. Many people with disabilities consider “R#tard” the most offensive word referring to disability. I agree. Bigots use negative terms for minorities. R#tard is the same, it’s hate speech used by bigots. Consider carefully your words in the future.Because…Words Hit, Hard As a Fist. So, JUST STOP IT.

I envisioned making these for each of our staff, for each of our members. I envisioned using them in place of loud and useless confrontation. A few words that outline that bigots use words like these, that people hear those words and are hurt by them, that this is hate speech, that people with disabilities are a legitimate minority – and deserve respect as such. A few words to confront. I envision these cards being ripped up and thrown away. But I hope. I hope that the words stick like words do. That the words rankle like words can. That the words prompt examination like words will.

Retard is just a word.

So is Enough.

Even if we fail at making change in even one person, I predict we will make change in ourselves. We will be emboldened by this action. We will know what the extent of our own courage is. We will know better our own minds. I predict that as we change ourselves we will discover that silence, once the comfortable option, is no longer acceptable. The change we discover will not be anything more than the tossing off of complacency.

Even before the news broke about the movie ‘Tropic Thunder’ I had had enough. Even before those who know better but don’t care were outed as disphobic bigots. Even before … I had had enough. Meeting with Manuela this morning we talked about this card, about using the card, about beginning to action. We agreed that Vita will give this design to anyone, give these words to anyone, we will not copyright what we have created. Because this is about only one thing.

Us.

Against them.

Finally.

what kind of city am i?

A city is comprised of people.  If there were no people in the city, it would no longer be a city.

In Grace’s last few columns has been writing about examples of Cities of Hope built from the Heart.  From an almost carless city to a mercy-justice centered revolution, she has been sharing examples of what is possible for Detroit through examples from other cities as well as from people from other cities seeing Detroit with their Hearts.  The examples she shared were of people coming together, with a shared vision, and making dreams into reality.

Recently, I have also been reading the BBC News (British Broadcasting) and they have been reporting that the United States has been in a downturn, and they have used Detroit as an example of this.  They said that Detroit used to be a symbol of prosperity and Hope and now it is a fallen apart, broken down shell of a city.  They use Detroit as a symbol of what could happen to the United States, if the economy does not turn.

Detroiters, what do you see?

A few weeks ago, I attended a workshop that went as follows: the facilitator of the workshop had everyone sit in a circle.  The facilitator held out a crisp, new $50 bill.  She held it in front of her, showed it to everyone and said, “The instruction for this workshop is that whoever comes to up first and asks for the money, it’s will be theirs.”

There were about twenty adults in the room, sitting in the circle, and only two people stood up.  Everyone else stayed in their seats.  Of the two that stood up, they both took off running, and both asked for the money.  Then, one person slowed down and almost came to a stop.  The other person kept running and took the money.  A pause occurred.  And then everyone started talking.  “I thought that there would be other instructions.”  “I did not think that you were really going to give us the money.”  “I started to get up, but when no ones else did, I stayed.”  “I was tried and was not fully paying attention.”  “He tripped me!”  “I will never run for money.”  “I would not look cool running for money.”  “We don’t do that in my culture.”  “As soon as I saw the money, I knew that it was mine.”

The facilitator then said, “This is an example of opportunity.  I said exactly what I said, and you made your choices based on your past assumptions, justifications, and judgments.”

“Remember this: the way you do one thing is the way you do everything.”

Detroiters, how do you do things?

If , the way that I do one thing, is the way that I do everything, then it must also follow that, since the city is defined by its’ people, then the way that I do everything is the way that Detroit does everything.

Detroiters, what kind of city are you?

How do you do everything?  Do you go through life saying, “I was tired, not fully paying attention, and did not want to look uncool.” Or do you say, “As soon as I see that I could do something to improve the situation, even though it would require me to step outside of what I know, I will do it.”  Do you approach challenging situations saying, “No matter what I do, I will never make a difference anyways.”  Or do you say, “No matter what I do, I will follow my Heart, and do the best I can with what I have because I Am enough.”

Perception creates reality.  Look at how you see yourself and look at how you see Detroit.  If the way you do one thing is the way you do everything, then what kind of city are you?  If you are not the Detroit that you want to be, what steps will you take to become that city?

(a column that i wrote for Grace as a reflection on some of her columns.  not sure if it’ll be published…perhaps.)