Write to Right

Dear Torii Hunter, Carol's Daughter, Henry Louis Gates and All the Hype Freaks: Black Latinidad/Mixed Identity Is Complex, So Stop Being Divisive

2011-05-05T12:43:00.009-05:00

In the last four days, I have heard way too much divisive language about being a multi-racial person in the United States. I have spent most of the last 10 years getting to know all the different cultures that have created the mix that I am - West African, Spanish, Caribbean, Black, White, indigenous, Middle Eastern, South Asian - and I have found great respect for all these cultures and I feel proud of all of them. I choose to identify as a Black Latina and/or mixed Latina because: 1) many members of my family in both Cuba and Colombia were hurt by racism, slavery and the denial that both caused, so I feel it is my mission to embrace my Black roots; 2) I absolutely love that if you look at my family, you can see our Middle Eastern features, White features, Black features and South Asian features - I think it is vital to embrace all the journeys that created that mix.

HOWEVER, it seems that people like Torii Hunter have a problem with Black Latinos/as, just at the moment when scholars like Henry Louis Gates, Jr., are bringing their experience to a wider audience. Now, I have issue with many missing things in Gates' work, especially the work of Black Latino/a scholars who made his PBS special possible, but I still think the documentary has value in that it legitimizes the subject for many people who were in denial about it or didn't even know it existed. The PBS special will open the doors for new scholarly activity; new scholars will be able to write about the gaping holes in Gates' work, for example. It is irresponsible for an athlete to attempt to close those doors. I simply cannot understand why an African American like Hunter does not feel connected to his fellow Black players, regardless of where they come from. Isn't the Black experience deeper than a major league baseball job? Does Hunter feel that he must act like a rival gang member in a 10 block radius and decide that he feels more threatened by someone who is just like him, instead of directing his anger towards a system that makes all athletes court jesters to entertain the masses? Why is he unable to see the big picture? Why not join forces with his brothers in order to create more fairness for ALL Blacks in the sport?

Another divisive news item that came to light is decidedly more female-centered. Apparently, the folks who run Carol's Daughter, a website that sells hair and beauty products for Black women, decided to expand their merchandise base to include products that are useful to "mixed women." The statement sent many Black women into a fury because apparently including "mixed" women means excluding "real Black" women. Things got so heated, there is a blog solely dedicated to hating Carol's Daughter. I think the phrase that made the women most upset was when the press release stated that the global women who are of many cultures don't pick one box on a form and that they are "colorless" when it comes to defining themselves. I can completely understand how "colorless" was the wrong choice and any PR person worth his/her weight would have said you can't use that word. However, I don't understand how the folks who used products on the site didn't understand that mixed women were already part of their world. I mean, most people, Black or White, have a mix if you reach far enough back.

The new spokespeople for Carol's Daughter - Selita Ebanks, Solange Knowles, and Cassie - are mixed Black women who have a huge Black fan base. So, exactly what is the problem? Is this just another case of hating the high yellow lady? I don't think it is or should be that simple. Many of us are mixed and we finally want to acknowledge that journey. Acknowledging our mix does NOT mean that we do not identify as Black or find "true Blackness" - whatever that is - ugly. In fact, it is the opposite - we find ALL of it beautiful. It just means that we have many different cultures that we want to acknowledge. Why is that concept frightening for so many people? Just as Hunter does not see Black Latinos/as as "real Blacks," the women who are boycotting Carol's Daughter do not see Ebanks, Knowles or Cassie as representative of "real Blacks." That is a problem. On the one hand, people want us mixed folks to acknowledge our African ancestry, but on the other hand, they feel that we can never really represent our African ancestry. I find the double standard completely counterproductive.

But not everyone is hostile towards the variety of Black people found all over the world. For example, there is one website, Round Brush Hair, which I have been faithful to for years now. It is a Dominican website that sells Dominican hair products which work on hair that ranges from super thick and kinky to super thin and stringy. The website acknowledges the many races found in the Dominican Republic and features products that work for the full range of hair textures. I swear by the products found there and I love how Blacks of many different cultures - African American, Black Latino/a, UK Blacks, etc. - all find a home there. Whether you are lightskinned-ed or black sand dark, you will find people with good advice for you and products suited to your needs. And, NO, I don't work for the site. I'm just pointing out that I suspect that Carol's Daughter was trying to capitalize on this concept, the idea that there is a full range of Blackness that should be acknowledged. I mean, aren't a bunch of African Americans mixed, too? Um - yes! These African American mixed chicks acknowledge it. If you have a mix and acknowledge it, does it mean you are negating being Black? I don't think so.

Furthermore, if you are Latino/a and Black, or Chinese and Black, or whatever and Black, does that mean that you are not really Black? I've always said, I think each person has to choose for him/herself and that the rest of us should respect that decision. Zoe Saldana identifies as a Black Latina and she, indeed, has had a life as a Black woman - no one can take that away from her. It may not be the same life that an African American woman in Houston might have had, but it is still part of the Black experience, just as the life of a Black woman in Germany is still part of the Black experience, etc. Chanel Iman is half African American and half Korean, and she has lived the life of a Black woman, too. Joan Smalls, same thing. AND, Saldana has also has a Dominican experience, and Chanel Iman a Korean experience, and Smalls a Puerto Rican experience, and so on. One experience does not negate the other. One is not more than the other. They are all equal.

Stop denying us. We are here and our lives have been hard and beautiful, just like yours.

(I wrote on this subject years ago. You can look at my previous article on the Black Latino/a experience here. Also, Rosa Clemente wrote a great article on the subject years ago, too. Find it here.)

The Black Latino/a Experience (originally published in 2005 on ParaMi.net)

2011-05-05T12:20:00.007-05:00

I've decided to republish my article, "The Black Latino/a Experience" here because the two websites that originally published it - ParaMi.net in 2005 and Blacktino.net in 2008 - are now defunct. I thought I should have a record of it and I believe the issues are still culturally relevant. I hope you think so, too.

When I was a little girl
my mami said to me
if you had straight hair
then you'd be so pretty
when I was a little girl
my daddy said to me
good girls never fight
if you fight, then you're ungodly
my black friends said, “You're white.”
my white friends said, “You're black.”
I wish I could take the strength I have now
and shoot it straight on back
to that time when I was so helpless and so weak
to them I was invisible, a flimsy transparency
not black, not white, not anything distinct
a flimsy transparency

Growing up in the 1970s and ‘80s as a mixed Cuban/Colombian in Chicago's Logan Square neighborhood, with its large Puerto Rican and Polish populations, was confusing. Everyone thought I was Puerto Rican, and when I explained where my parents were from, they looked at me funny, as if I had said, “I am from the galaxy of Cuba, located in the region of Colombia, far, far, away.” However, what would be infinitely more confusing was when I earned the privilege of attending a 7th -12th grade prep school in the affluent neighborhood of Hyde Park. That area, and the school, was primarily African American and Jewish. After a couple of months, I began to notice how much the seventh grade black boys liked me. I began to ask my parents if I was a black person. They responded with a bunch of references to words I had never heard of like, triguena, morena, mestiza, and they said something about the indigenous peoples of Colombia, but they refused to answer my question directly. After a few weeks of what they called my annoying gringa persistence (Would they ever forgive me for being the first born in the U.S.?), my mother did admit that her father had refused to go to her wedding because my father “era un negro.” My mother had always called my dad “negrito,” but I had always thought of it as term of affection, not as a reference to his being black. Was I black? Then why had my race always been referred to as “Hispanic” or “Latino”? Do those terms refer to skin color? My mother is also Latina, but she is white. Do the words “Hispanic” and “Latino” equally address the backgrounds of my mother, my father and me? Not really.

Another fellow black Latino, Piri Thomas, born in 1928, is the first Puerto Rican American (he is also half Cuban) to be published in the United States. He is also one of the first Latinos to have addressed the issue of race in our barrios with his groundbreaking novel Down These Mean Streets and other works. He knew he was different when his family moved from his birthplace of East Harlem to Long Island, New York. “My sister came out blanca, my one brother had blue eyes, bluer than the sky, and my other brother had hazel eyes and he had hair that he could shake back. I did that and nothing would move!” As a result, many of the local high school students, none of them Latino or African American, could not understand how Mr. Thomas could come from a family that had lighter siblings. To make matters worse, even Mr. Thomas' fellow Latinos made him feel like an outsider. “I think it was when I came to my age of awareness, which was about seven or eight years old…I would pick up on words, phrases, they'd say things like, ‘ Mira, casate blanca pa' que suba la raza' or ‘marry white so you raise the race.' There was teasing, they called me narizón, cabezón, y bembu. My own people were being racist towards me.”

According to José Luis Vilson, Co-founder of the Latino Alumni Network of Syracuse University, his own peers, from the Caribbean and from South America, would tell him he was “not Dominican enough” because of his dark skin color. “There are many people who are very dark Dominicans and you see them on the island, and I come back to the United States and there are these people in New York City who are telling me I am not Dominican enough. That infuriated me.” When asked if the Latinos who made such a statement were white, he laughed. “As a matter of fact, they were somewhat in the middle, like, brownish. This has a lot to do with Trujilloism. You may, or may not, be aware of the fact that when Trujillo arrived in the Dominican Republic, he tried to make everyone as white as possible because if you were black that meant you were Haitian, so he wanted that division.”

Arlene Chico-Lugo, a black Puerto Rican actress who has been seen on programs like FOX's Johnny Zero, told me that she had never talked about being a black Latina with anyone in her 20 plus years of life. She confronts racism within the Latino community on a daily basis when she walks into auditions and sometimes the confrontations are quite blatant. “I went to this one audition…and the woman said to me, ‘I don't even know why you're here. Take a look outside. You're not what [the producers] want. I don't even want to put you on camera because I'll get in trouble,'” Ms. Chico-Lugo said as she explained her experience with the casting director for a Spanish-language car commercial. All of the other actors present that day were white Latinos. “I just stood there with this dumb smile on my face, thinking, ‘I can't believe this is actually happening.'” Yet, it happens every day. The overwhelming majority of Spanish-language programming on television does not reflect the variety of races represented in Latin America and this obscures our roots. My own students, who range in age from 10 to 70 and who live in different locales throughout the New York and New Jersey areas, are often unaware that one can be white or black AND Latino at the same time.

According to a 2003 report in The L.A. Times by Daniel Hernandez, the U.S. Census has finally started allowing Latinos to pick more than one category in terms of race and ethnicity in 2000, thus opening up a field of research in terms of black and white Latinos. However, through my own informal research on the black Latino experience in the U.S., I have found that Latino families have traditionally talked very little about race and its effect on identity. Add to that the fact that few Latinos are taught their own history in terms of race and nationality in U.S. schools and you have a mix of denial and erased truth that is specifically Latino. In fact, according to the slave trade map available at http://www.slaveryinamerica.org/geography/slave_trade.htm, between 10 and 15 million people of African descent were shipped to the Americas from the years of 1650 to 1860. The majority of these slaves were brought to areas of the Caribbean and Central and South America and only 500,000 were brought to the U.S.

It may seem crazy that Latinos could actually deny that there are any blacks in Latin America, but I have heard it from my own friends, too. Growing up I constantly heard the older Cubanas in my church claim that there were no blacks in Cuba, even as they listened to Celia Cruz. My own aunts, to this day, deny that they have a black ancestry, despite the afros that we all have (and straighten). By the time I was out of college, I had finally accepted that I am a black Latina and stopped straightening my hair. Now, whenever people asked me the rude, but inevitable, question of “What are you?” I have an answer.

However, there is still much work to be done. One day, walking home, I did not respond to an African American man's advances and he yelled that the reason I had not talked to him was that he was black. I told him that I was black, just like him, and he said, “You can't be black. Maybe you're a spic or something, but you can't be black.” Even though his response was very rude, I felt, even at that time, that it was representative of what so many people, black and white, still believe. It is futile to deny where a good part of our warm color comes from; let us embrace all of our roots.

My hope is that one day we will refuse to live by the labels on the boxes of so many of the bureaucratic forms woven into our lives. My hope is that one day we will see the true woven fabric of our lives, a fabric that has little pieces of gold from all over the world which form into one solid, reflective entity.

References
Hernandez, Daniel. “Report Shows How Racial Identities Affect Latinos.” L.A. Times, 15 July 2003.

Modern Foxes: A Guide to Women and Adventure in Film

2011-04-29T02:51:00.037-05:00

What does a girl have to do to get some adventure around here? No, seriously - I'm not talking about Terry McMillan novels or adventure fantasy junk that describes in detail the texture of a fairy's iridescent wings. I'm talking about Tama Janowitz adventure, or Sylvie Simmons adventure. Adventure where women are tough, sarcastic, and have a humorous free spirit that finds them in an elite pad on the Upper East Side one minute and then on an expedition in Egypt the next and then maybe learning how to sculpt in Southern California the next. I'm not talking about your typical, corny "girl power" story that either shows us how oppressed we are and that...sniff, sniff...we CAN survive it or YEAH (!!!), we're BADASS and we can use just as many guns as the next guy, all while wearing a short skirt.

Octavia Butler, Anne Rice and Joyce Carole Oates have crafted excellent stories, but not all my students get their culture from reading. Furthermore, there is a darkness to their writing, a sense of complete suffering, which is vital to the work. I appreciate that women have suffered, but I also appreciate that we have a great time. Why not celebrate that more? It's missing from the conversation. It's like when the Wayans' brothers made this film in order to criticize the stereotype that all African American people are miserable in the 'hood - we need to make fun of the Lifetime network stereotype of women suffering for two hours then feeling empowered for two minutes already.

In that vein, I have created a comprehensive, but not all-encompassing, list of films that have inspired my female imagination and sparked my desire for more and more and evermore adventure. I had a few requirements when choosing what would go on the list: 1) the film can't just be about getting the guy; 2) the film has to show women thriving in some way, even if they are totally not perfect; 3) the main character has to be powerful in a fresh way (i.e., she can't just be a chick with a gun - can we say "fetish"?); 4) there has to be adventure!

The list is in chronological order and I have not included documentaries; if you think anything is missing, post a comment!

AUNTIE MAME (1958)

Auntie Mame was based on a novel by the same name. Our main character has many adventures while raising her nephew in a wacky, bohemian way.

DARLING (1965)

Julie Christie plays a woman who does whatever she wants...and makes it all the way to a palace doing it. However, it is not a Cinderella story because the palace - and the prince - are boring.

SWEET CHARITY (1969)

Shirley MacLaine stars, Chita Rivera is featured, and the women shine and believe in love, despite others around them who are not as strong.

ROCK 'N' ROLL HIGH SCHOOL (1979)

Riff Randall is the embodiment of adventure - she lives for it!

TIMES SQUARE (1980)

Two teenage girls, who have both been deemed crazy, btw, hold a concert in Times Square. One of them is a tough street chick and the other is the daughter of NYC's mayor! Class rules broken!

FOXES (1980)

Jodie Foster, and Marie Curie of the Runaways, star as fearless teens who try to negotiate growing up in corrupt L.A.

BREAKING GLASS (1980)

The adventures of a true, English, punk rock queen.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: THE FABULOUS STAINS (1982)

Diane Lane stars as a young girl who heads a band and gets thousands of people to follow her lead.

LIQUID SKY (1982)

Ann Carlyle plays with gender roles and looks amazing doing it.

SUBURBIA (1983)

Okay, technically, the main character isn't female, but there are definitely girls doing their own thing here and they aren't wimpy or afraid of abandoned buildings, etc. Furthermore, a woman - Penelope Spheris - directed the film.

THE HUNGER (1983)

Miriam, played by Catherine Deneuve, is the oldest person on the planet, the mother of civilization, an imperialist beeatch. She meets her match in Susan Sarandon's Sarah, an innovative researcher. Current vampire films don't compare to this one, imho.

DARK HABITS (1984)

An Almodovar film where nuns do some very peculiar and wild things. It could be said that most of his films feature badass women who are on adventures, but this one seems to be the least related to boyfriends or births, so I thought I'd share the rare film. I guarantee it will become one of your faves.

DESPERATE TEENAGE LOVEDOLLS (1984)

Rock and roll debauchery in a silly, silly film.

DESPERATELY SEEKING SUSAN (1985)

Rosanna Arquette is adorable, Aidian Quinn is quirky, and Madonna is Madonna. The outfits and locations make an adventure out of 80s New York and New Jersey - love it! If you rent the DVD, look at the alternative ending, where the women leave their men sitting at home while they explore Egypt.

MODERN GIRLS (1986)

Three roommates, no money, no car, and it's the weekend. Step in geek and the adventure begins! Ex.: One of the roommates has a chance at running off with a famous musician - but she chooses her own life!

SOMETHING WILD (1986)

Melanie Griffith stars as Audrey/Lulu, a woman who is hot, smart and could care less about convention. Jeff Daniels is funny as her cute puppy and Ray Liotta is amazing as her psychotic husband.

HAIRSPRAY (1988)

When I first saw this I loved it because it showed a big girl with a hot boyfriend, something which I had never seen on-screen. It also showed girls willing to stand up against racism, defending interracial romance, and kids, in general, being fun and smart at the same time. Totally liberating without that "oh poor us" syndrome. But I love all John Waters films. A DIRTY SHAME is especially empowering and hilarious, too.

HEATHERS (1988)

Great dark comedy with Winona Ryder and Christian Slater, but more importantly, she doesn't choose to be with a guy at the end. Pretty girls can be smart, too? Wow, what a concept.

STICKY FINGERS (1988)

Helen Slater and Melanie Mayron - who were later cast in much blander films and TV - are classical musicians trying to make the rent. Again, great outfits and locations, but most importantly, the resolution really has nothing to do with getting the guy - in fact it's quite the opposite.

PARTY GIRL (1995)

Parker Posey in one of her great indies where a party girl re-evaluates her life and re-invents herself.

ROMY AND MICHELLE'S HIGH SCHOOL REUNION (1997)

The sweet artists who you thought were dumb in high school actually got skills - and they are more fun than you. Work can be fun - who knew?

SPLENDOR (1999)

I think all Gregg Araki films have strong women in them but this one is notable because it turns marriage and childbirth on its head. Technically, it is NOT about getting the guy but about getting TWO guys. Completely unconventional but definitely adventurous - and hilarious. A newer film, HAVANA EVA, explores this concept, too - it won an award at San Anto's Cinefestival this year. I should also mention Araki's NOWHERE, which stars Rachel True as a girl who does only what pleases her; I have mixed feelings about it because the character is somewhat unsympathetic, but True is amazing in the role - very nuanced - and I wish there were more roles like this for Black women.

GHOSTWORLD (2001)

Suburban girls navigate identity while at rummage sales and in art classes. I do have to mention that I'm creeped out by the older guy relationship, but the complexity of Thora Birch's Enid overrides that.

SCUMROCK (2002)

Ironic/funny look at L.A. artists with a very strong female lead. The guy from T.V. on the Radio is in it, too, as a filmmaker - and the analysis is scathing! So much fun to watch!

HAPPY GO LUCKY (2008)

A teacher who has a sex life (!), has a nightlife, has friends, wears cool clothes, and is completely moral and sweet and hopeful, even around negative people. I'd say she's the new Sweet Charity - and my hero!

WHIP IT (2009)

Girls supporting each other without getting all annoyingly corny - I'm there! I think this is much better than Drew's other "girly" projects.

I hope you find the list useful. Like I implied earlier, I'd like to see more novels with the spirit found in these films, but these will do for now. Oh, and I should mention that I found lots of "girl power film" lists online, but too many of them had stuff like THELMA AND LOUISE, where the chicks end up committing suicide (!) at the end, or SISTERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING PANTS, which makes me want to regurgitate my dinner, or films that were just too victim-centered.

And that's the worst part of it, isn't it? That is, to constantly portray women as having to get out of a victim situation instead of happily sweating out a challenging, exciting situation, in the end, perpetuates our concept of ourselves as victims. These films, with all their flaws, show me how women/girls can have fun with challenges and I am certain that imagery has contributed to my own success.

Now, go ahead, all you writers out there, start writing more stories that show women for who they are: adventurers. I'll be waiting...or actually, no, I'll probably be busy with my next adventure...maybe a trip to a new place...or finally editing that play...or maybe...

PULL UP TO THE BUMPER: Curves are normal, caramba!

2011-02-22T20:13:00.003-06:00

I am not going to attempt to make any new joke about that idiot Limbaugh talking about the beautiful First Lady, Michelle Obama - I'm sure the best jokes have already been said - but I am going to question why people think it is okay to continually insult beautiful women who look strong and healthy. Basta!

Look at a damn Fellini film. Fellini women are not size two. Most women are not a size two, yet people in San Antonio are trying to oust Miss San Antonio because she is only a size two. They said they want to promote healthy eating. Asking a 17 year old girl to lose 13 pounds when she is a size two is unhealthy and actually promotes unhealthy eating habits. Implying that Michelle Obama is overweight when she's had two children, has arms of steel and still manages to look like this

is freakin' unhealthy. Man, she looks hot in that dress!

Exactly what do people have against women? Are folks still upset that we get to wear both skirts and pants? Why do some of you insist on making us believe that we have to look like this in order to be "healthy?" Sorry, Stella Tenant, but I don't think visible rib cages are a sign of health or sexual prowess. Is it that people want to keep us weak and silly, because that seems like the only possible explanation. Our brains are made of body fat, so we simply cannot rid ourselves of all the fat - sorry, I'd prefer that the governing organ of my body be able to function properly.

Here are some averages of women's measurements. Note that the older average measurements (35-27-37.5), from around the 1940s, are not what is considered a size two today, which is a max of 34-24.5-35.5. Yet models are expected to be 34-24-34, and that is at 5'8 or taller. What we need to consider is how perception changes. In the past, a curvy woman was considered healthy; now, she is considered obese. I've taken certain surveys on weight and size and I've gotten "obese" back as a result. My waist is 26 inches. I don't want to look scrawny like Charlotte Gainsbourg! Ugh!

Don't get me wrong - we have promoted a healthier lifestyle as of late. I do believe that changing our smoking habits from those promoted in the past is totally correct, but making women believe that their natural body shape - one which has carried many women in the 1950s to age 80, or 90 or older - is totally incorrect. Even today we have many women who are energetic forces of nature who have commanding bodies we should admire. Here are some beautiful women who are certainly not a size two and, apart from Monroe, most are/were incredibly healthy.

BEYONCE

GRACE JONES

RITA HAYWORTH

SELENA

And, iconic beauties:

MARILYN

MOHINI IN BELUR TEMPLE

VENUS

CLEOPATRA

None of these amazing beauties are a size two, not that I'm saying there's anything wrong with being a size two (as someone who is 5'1, I've been there, but I was also very young and without child - as an older woman I enjoy my new curves and I think my husband does, too). We definitely shouldn't be hurtful to women who are NATURALLY thin, but to expect our First Lady to change her beauty when she represents the ideal - a strong, healthy, active woman - is ignorant. Furthermore, to ask a young girl who is already thin to risk her health for the camera is horrific - what kind of adult are you?? To expect any woman who is healthy and active to conform to unhealthy delusions is just plain stupid, especially when we have so many examples of how healthy is beautiful.

Can we just squash this stuff already? We made sexual harassment a big no-no; can we make weight harassment a no-no, too? Or maybe we can just get Grace Jones to kick Limbaugh's ass.

A Pause

2010-09-21T15:00:00.002-05:00

I will not be able to write any substantial blogs for a few months because I am trying to finish my dissertation and graduate, but here are a few things to ponder until I get back to all of you:

1. What might we make of the current trend of falsity? Some basic examples of this include plastic surgery, airbrushing, fake tans, and hair extensions. Other, more elaborate examples, include trolling, The Colbert Report, and ironic websites which purport to be right wing, for example, but which are actually making fun of the people they claim to be. It is the second group of examples I find most fascinating. It takes a very keen eye and mind to recognize what is actually going on, what information can be trusted, who is actually being honest about who he/she is. Why have we become so twisted and tricky about information? Is this useful?

2. I've been hearing that the "recession" has been over for several years now, yet more than half of my students in a recent class raised their hands when I asked how many of them had recently been unemployed or underemployed. Is there anyone who will finally admit that we have been in a depression for decades?

3. Vincent and I have refused to work in education positions where we have to rank students or needlessly test them, we have refused to invest our money in corporations who take part in practices that pretty much enslave people in other countries (no 401Ks here), and we have still managed to eat and write and look somewhat stylish doing it (and we continually watch South Park's episode on SMUG, to guard against that, too, 'kay). Are there other people who have managed to avoid Wall Street or other immoral workplaces and not end up on the actual street? I'd like to know who you are.

4. Finally, for those of us who do have employment right now, we often work all the time, even if we are at home, we have to continually check email, have our phone on in case something comes up - our schedules are not set, we are always thinking of work, even if we are not in the workplace. We have many different tasks to accomplish because our employers are unable to hire the right number of people for the jobs that need to be done. Much of our work goes unpaid, therefore, if we do get vacation time, we cannot afford to get away from the concrete and steel. This phenomenon does not allow us to have leisure time. I'm reading Paul Shepard right now and he, and other scholars he draws from, claim that leisure time is what allowed humans to evolve. We had time to imagine, contemplate, play, process and develop new ideas. I am helping a group of high school seniors write essays that hopefully will show how dynamic they are to scholarship committees and I was horrified to learn that they have no leisure time, I imagine because they are working with me and other tutors during all their free time. What can we do to ensure that we all have time to let our minds and bodies wander? Perhaps that is the only way to come up with solutions to some important problems. I find this extremely important.

That said, I will go back to my constant work. :) Wish me luck!

DON’T CALL ME SLACKER!: “X” means the spot you drilled and siphoned all our resources for your own pleasure

2010-06-20T20:51:00.004-05:00

People who call my generation, the generation that was born around 1965 to 1980, the “slacker” generation are a bunch of weasels who have collectively created a world devoid of: quality bookstores/libraries/public schools; any kind of morally reasonable job pool; and any sort of housing that actually allows folks to create a stable living space. I absolutely HATE anyone who continues using rhetoric that paints a picture of a generation of jerks who sit on their sofas all day watching “The Simpsons” repeats and eating Captain Crunch. That image of what they like to call “Generation X” is wrong, a lie, and spiteful.

Let me address my initial points. First of all, we are teased for not having an extensive vocabulary. Really? Well, what do you expect when all of our book options have been relegated to the local Barnes and Noble or Borders Bookstore?? What do you expect when small booksellers—who choose quality books and not a bunch of romance or self-help crap—have been forced to close because earlier generations of adults thought it was better to have one megastore serve an entire city instead of a variety of specialists stocking their own shops with books they actually read? What do you expect when older generations decided it was not important to teach us to read anymore? “Phonics? What’s the point of that? Let the kid GUESS what the letters sound like!” “Libraries? Why spend public dollars on those when we got a WAR TO FIGHT?”

Second, we are criticized for switching jobs, or for not having jobs at all. Oh, sure, it’s okay that Generation Y is having trouble finding work, but Gen Xers are LOSERS! We must feel sorry for the grandkids, but our kids are EVIL and LAZY!! For those of you who were perhaps not alive when this whole thing started, downsizing and outsourcing were started when President Reagan was in office, so jobs were already being cut before we even graduated college. Furthermore, the jobs we were left with were morally reprehensible. My own brother Luis was horrified by the way he had to treat clients who had just been in accidents, clients who, as an insurance agent, he had to refuse to cover because of technical this or that. WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT THAT JOB?? It is physically painful to be immoral to people. Oh, sure, there were plenty of kids who were willing to become evil on Wall Street, and look at what THAT ended up causing. If you wanted to go into the humanities, you had to be a COMMERCIAL artist and convince people to spend money on products they didn’t need, or you had to work in schools that ensured learning would be traumatizing to kids, or you had to starve. I’ve been working since I was 11 years old (yeah, I know I've said that before). I’ve worked my whole life and never made anything much, in terms of money, but if I had been paid fairly for all of the work I’d done—teaching, entertaining, writing/publishing, designing, curating—no one would call me a slacker because I’d be living phat. The story out there now is that it is only the CURRENT generation that has suffered for lack of work, but the truth is that there has been very little work for several generations and this is why we all keep going back to school (in hopes of finding better work later on).

Third, how can we possibly create stable lives if we have no affordable housing? Folks have been writing about the housing crisis for decades now, yet people keep putting up $400,000 condos. Can I have a cheap, clean, vermin-free rental, please? No one can afford to live in those condos, anyway, so it’s like you are just keeping the space to yourselves, saying, “Ha! Ha! You can’t live here!”

When I look around, I see very few friends of mine who don’t want to work. Everyone I know works hard and they are quite talented. A great number of my friends work multiple jobs and they take great pleasure in committing themselves to making this world a better place. It is argued that we are not motivated to change things. Well, that’s bullsh**. Our generation was an integral part of the first world-wide protest against a war that happened BEFORE the war began. Our generation was capable of utilizing technology to connect multiple nations in a protest against the worst kind of violent action. We didn’t just sign an on-line petition. Many of us stood in freezing temperatures throughout the U.S. and world in order to protest the Iraq war. Furthermore, our generation was an integral part of making sure our first African American president was elected. I was not given the opportunity to travel to Washington, D.C. through any school function, something which was common decades ago. No, I went to D.C. of my own volition to be close to the Inauguration. I also went to New Orleans to learn first-hand about the damage done by Hurricane Katrina, even though one of my college professors called the trip “taking a vacation,” even though the semester had already ended (How can someone associated with education think seeing Katrina damage is a vacation??).

A great number of my friends/acquaintances work in education, even though there are more people who criticize education than people who actually try to make a difference in it. My husband works with teens of all races in an arts program, when you know there is no money for the arts. My friend Nova did her thesis on art and education and she opened a gallery in Washington Heights, when many people would never think of highlighting art in that neighborhood because they are racist. An old acquaintance, Jesse, has worked with Puerto Rican teens in Chicago for decades, and he, as a scholar, connected themes in that locale with themes in Ireland (both P.R. and Ireland were colonized—the connection is not that hard to make). My NYC acquaintance, Jenny, has written more plays than you can shake a stick at, despite being a cancer survivor—and they don’t sit on some shelf, they get produced!

This does not sound like a lazy generation to me. Screw you if you think so. Yes, I’m being vulgar because the portrayal of who we are is vulgar. My generation is NOBLE. So many of my peers from Chicago’s Kenwood Academy have pursued noble, caring professions, and many of them donate time and substantial money to causes that ensure that younger folks will make it, too. Where is that in the portrayal of who we are?? Aren’t we the generation that exposed the dangers of an oil-dependent nation? Aren’t we the generation that exposed the dangers of globalization, but were not too insensitive to see the benefits of knowing people from a variety of countries, free of bigotry that previous generations exhibited? Aren’t we the generation that insisted on recycling?? I still remember my friend Jennifer yelling at her dad for putting food waste in with the recyclables. :)

We were given a world without jobs/moral jobs, without affordable housing, without fulfilling education, and with mountainous debt. DESPITE all of that, we’ve managed to care about our environment, care about the lives of people who older generations think are okay to bomb, and care about subsequent generations and the education we provide for them. To me, the meaning of X has nothing to do with slacking or wasting time. To me, X is where the gold is.

Malcolm X, Amiri Baraka, and the Texas-made history book

2010-05-23T14:50:00.003-05:00

So I just got finished watching Spike Lee’s “Malcolm X,” again—I saw it the day it came out in theaters and probably at least two other times after that. I hadn’t seen it in a while and given that the anniversary of his death was this past week, May 19th, the same day my parents were married, I thought the timing was good. After seeing the film, Vincent mentioned Amiri Baraka’s poem, “The X is Black (Spike Lie),” and I’d never read the poem so I asked Vinny to break it out now that the film was fresh in my mind. I’m not exactly sure how to interpret the poem, but Baraka addresses the opening sequence where a U.S. flag burns into the X symbol, retaining the stars and stripes. Baraka correctly points out that the X would burn black, much like the space devoid of history for African Americans and anyone in the African Diaspora. I believe that Spike Lee was trying to create a space for Malcolm X in our legitimate U.S. history; my younger readers may not realize that when I was growing up, Malcolm X was a historical leper. No one outside of the Black community wanted to talk about him in any respectful way. He was always portrayed negatively. The film changed that. However, it seems that Baraka still feels that despite the goals of the film, ultimately what is done with Black culture is that it is used to create wealth for folks who don’t respect it. The poem implies that the film is a sell-out. If there are any other interpretations of the poem, please bring them on because I am not at all too sure of my own.

I am sure of some ideas, however, that have come up for me. The first is that I have been trying to fill in the X of my own absent history for all of my 38 years. Again, my younger readers and/or students often have no idea what I’m talking about or why it might matter, but as a child, I suffered greatly because I did not know who I was. My grandparents lived in countries outside of the U.S., our family tree was not recognized with well-kept records because we were poor and because our African and Asian/Middle-Eastern ancestral migrations/kidnappings were faint, and my parents did not know much about U.S. culture. As the first U.S.-born in my family, I was expected to adjust to the world without any information about my family, my ancestry or how to navigate U.S. culture. When Malcolm is in jail, it is the first time he is asked to think about who he is, by an Islamic leader, and this is when his enlightenment begins. It is at this time he is able to decide who he wants to become and what he wants to do in the world. When he acknowledges that his history has been erased, it becomes his goal to help others who are also “lost,” as he put it. Most of my students do not understand that we need to know our history in order to know who we are and what we want to do in the world. What Malcolm X may not have realized back then is that nearly everyone in the U.S. has an X. We are all given history with holes, history with an agenda, and this is what allows us to be so divided.

After the film, I told Vincent that today’s world is very different to the world I grew up in, according to what my students reflect back to me. The racial lines are still there—statistics often prove this, as do visits to the poor areas of the Bronx or Cartagena, Colombia, or South Africa—but the movements in the 1940s, 50s, and 60s, did make changes. Most of my students have a diverse range of friends and many of my students of color come from middle class backgrounds. Bush’s cabinet had several people of color represented. I did not see these sorts of things as a child, very much. I certainly didn’t see the number of people of color in the media as I do now. However, we must keep Baraka’s message in mind. The changes that we can see, a Condoleeza Rice here, a Jennifer Lopez there, do not fill in the black X. The X is filled in with legitimate study and community. As I wrote before, it took me 38 years to begin to fill in my X. I had to make it to DOCTORAL study in order to find the facts that showed me that yes, there were Middle Eastern migrations to the Caribbean coast of Colombia, which explains why some of my cousins look Middle Eastern. It took persistent questions to finally find out about the African ancestry in my Cuban family. It took years of reading and hunting and privileged access to a university library in order to find out about the Caribs, my ancestors, and how they joined forces with African slaves on the islands and how letters written centuries ago document persistent desires to become independent from Spanish and English rule. This group was so smart and strong, it took brutal force and, ultimately, MIXING to dominate them. That is, we are taught that the Caribs were decimated, but they were not. The Spanish and the English had babies with them in order to secure rule. But wait, I wrote, “we are taught,” but that is wrong. We aren’t taught anything about the Caribbean except maybe a paragraph on the Bay of Pigs. I don’t believe we are even taught about Toussaint L’Ouverture, the man who led a successful slave revolt in the Caribbean (we are told it is the only successful revolt, but who knows). No, all of these facts are left out of history books, even though the U.S. is incredibly dependent on Caribbean resources and should share such information with its citizens.

This lack of enlightening reading brings me to the current issue at hand: history books. Many educators have taken it as a given that the history books we provide our children with are mediocre, at best. As you all may know, a board of useless people recently voted to make our history books even worse than mediocre. This sort of decision leaves EVERYONE in the U.S. with a big, empty X. All of our children are left at a disadvantage when they do not know our relationship with other countries and each other. Some have voiced concern about making white people look bad in history books; sorry, I can’t argue with facts and legacy, but the truth is that there are many white people who have helped create true community and there isn’t any reason why they cannot be placed right alongside the wide range of people of color who are a part of U.S. history. What I am arguing for is not repeating the same mistake that was made with my and previous generations. As it stands, a child who comes through our education system right now will have to repeat the same journey Malcolm X, I, and many others have had to take—a long and beleaguered one to find out who we are, where we came from and what that means in terms of choosing what we want to do in the world. What is the point of that?? Why have I taken over 30 years of time and money just to find out who my ancestors were? At one point, I even had to prove to people that Black folks were taken in slave ships to South America! Shouldn’t that fact be common knowledge?? At the DOCTORAL level, one of my colleagues believed that an exchange of culture between African Americans and Latinos/as did not exist. I understand that Texas is different than Chicago and New York, but even I can see that pachucos wear zoot suits, which were invented in HARLEM. Oh, don’t worry, my colleagues have since changed their tune thanks to three amazing African American female professors in our department.

Which brings me to my final point: Barack, Baraka, and amazing African American female professors. This group of people implies to many that whatever we did in the past worked and that we don’t have to worry about people of color anymore, therefore, we can go back to a “legitimate” history in textbooks. Representation of a few successful men and women of color does not mean that there is one legitimate history. Some argue that we cannot possibly teach the whole of history to students. Why not? My mother, when a student in Cuba, was expected to know the economic points, history, and geography of every world nation. Why can’t we do the same? Why not have each student research his/her own representative country/countries and provide a report and supplementary handout to the class? I don’t care if you are from Ireland, Chile or possibly Zimbabwe—everyone can take a look and attempt to see him or herself on the timeline of life. How can we possibly know where we can go if we don’t see where we’ve been? It’s like trying to read a book starting midway through. It doesn't make sense and you are left with longing for the important information that came before. Oh sure, you can start a soap opera at any time, but that is not the life I want to lead. Inane and shallow is not my thing.

I know some of my students will ask, “What’s the point?” If you don’t know who you are, then you are susceptible to anyone else’s ideas about who you are. You will easily take on a story that is not your own. You’ll take on the story of a person in a movie, or a person in a commercial, or a person in the public eye, and those stories are not complete. Those are very shallow stories and all they do is leave you with empty feelings and, oftentimes, debt. We are creatures who mimic, it is how we learn to talk, walk and act. If we do not know where we come from, we will not mimic the right people. This failure to mimic the right people is why we have the economic crisis we have now. A lot of people were mimicking Michael Douglas in “Wall Street,” thinking that it was perfectly fine to be greedy and steal; it doesn’t matter that he was the villain because he was the most compelling character and that is the character we will mimic. You can only do such acts when you don’t have any grounding. The rest of us who didn't identify with scum, both white and people of color, tried to find jobs that were moral and how many of those exist? Even if you are a teacher, you are expected to test your students with tests that don’t really test anything. If you are in retail or sales, you are expected to trick or profile your customer. If you are in business, you are expected to find ways to cut jobs. If you are in banking, you are expected to charge people to use their money in ways that make you a profit. If you are an artist, you are expected to entertain, as opposed to enlighten. If you choose not to participate in these activities and find a moral job, expect to struggle economically.

The economic struggle is frightening, if you are not aware of your legacy, and even sometimes if you are. You need to know who you are as much as possible in order to have strength to continue to be a positive force, in order to mimic the right people, in order to keep going through the fear. Now that I know myself a little more, I choose to mimic the strong and often outspoken women I grew up with in church, including my mother. I choose to mimic the wild and insightful writers of punk music and lyrics, who informed me when I was growing up as to the reality of what my leaders were doing. I choose to mimic the Caribs, who were not racist and were not sneaky like the colonizers, but who were fierce and determined and amazing storytellers and artists. I choose to mimic my great aunt in Cuba, who claimed her blackness even though it made everyone in her family shun her. I choose to mimic my grandmother in Colombia who made sure her entire family was educated and safe before she died. When I was kid, man, I was like young Malcolm, mimicking movies, getting caught up in junk, hurting people in the process. Knowing my history changed me, and it can help any one of our kids. We owe this to them.

I don’t believe I can tolerate another person having to come up through life as blindly as I did, gathering pieces of themselves at poetry readings, not having anyone to show them a clear path. Poetry readings are great, but they are not enough. If I’d had the opportunity to research my history, to read about my history, to share my history, it would have changed so much. I didn’t hear about Julia de Burgos until I was 29. I didn’t hear about Piri Thomas’ Down These Mean Streets until I was nearly 30. I didn’t hear about Manuel Zapata Olivella, who was friends with Langston Hughes and who traveled South like Thomas, until I was over 35. This is wrong. I don’t want any other kid to not know who he/she is. I don’t care how many countries we’ve come from. We can help our young ones understand what their timeline is. It is not a difficult task. Yes, we have moments that connect us all, but we all belong to different legacies and it is never too much trouble to acknowledge that. Baraka knows about the empty X, I know about the empty X, but the goal should be fill it up as much as we can.

A Better Question

2010-05-14T15:26:00.001-05:00

Someone asked
the other day,
“What do you do when
your parents ignore you?”

I think the better question is,
“What do you do when
your parents ignore themselves,
ignore what they’ve created,

neglect to tell stories
about grandparents,
foreign lands or traditions,
fail to see why you need this?”

I have come to understand
there is memory pain at the heart
of neglect, a negation of truth,
and fear, terror of what your child

might become with this information.
Oh, the failure of hope!
How it stunts miracles, distorts
communication with our loving children!

Why not show interest in the world
opening to you through blood and pupil?
Listen to the voice that is not yours.
There are faint echoes of you, but it is not you.

Let go of your miserable maze
and listen to new music,
share in its joy and curiosity.
Who are you to refuse a gift?

Ah, but yet we ignore.
What to do when parents ignore you/themselves?
Live, live well, forgive them, if you can.
One day they may know what they said “no” to.

Doors

2010-05-14T13:26:00.006-05:00

I flip
pinwheel flip over crimson black sticky fake leather armchairs
Superchica flip onto the badass woven gold and ebony weave sofa
flip, flip, flip ‘til the sofa frame cracks and sinks softer
cartwheel on orange shag protected by clear plastic runner
raise my skinny arms high like an Eastern European pixie, pose in my swimsuit, freak Papi out at dinner time with my spazmotic agility so he makes flipping illegal

NOwhere to flip
so I wait outside
doors
outside Mami’s door as she pretends to listen to Pedro Infante while crying, ear pressed against Carlos’ door and hearing Devo sing, “Boy, am I tired!” inside Luis’ door, peeking at gross porno and weed, en el cuarto de Tía, stealing make-up, hoping she’ll notice me, waiting by the front door for Papi to come home from a conference, ready to perform my latest play or song or puppet show just for him

but I don’t got daddy issues
I got freak issues
I want to explode the doors and walls, paint the house the color of the bloated seaweed woman, lime green, black, orange, silver, purple and blue, I want noise, loud and distorted, Machito, Circle Jerks, Black Sabbath, and Leontyne Price,flipping over and over and over, making the house swirl into stars and foam

flipping is damn illegal, though
so I go
black booted pixie stomping onto buses where mangy men who have been thrown out the house give her wishful money, pull their pants down in public and watch as she leaves them pathetic

spiky shy girl wondering where her freakflipland is, and maybe it’s the concert with all the lookalikes, or maybe it’s the club with all the sweeeet music, and maybe it’s the Keith Haring wall she jacks even though her teacher told her not to go, and maybe it’s the boy who takes her into the forest preserve the boy who she can’t even be brave enough to talk to, and maybe it’s the paint and markers she can only buy with saved lunch money, or blue blue blue windows in the red room at the museum that ignores her, and maybe there’s a door somewhere that tears open into a furry place of teeth and nails and sugar that sounds like the moment when her leg moves at exactly the same time the record spins into a new beat and she is liquid music and strobe light and vibration and flips and flips and flips and there is nothing illegal about it and she is right to search for this door

This is what she does
This is what I did
This is what I do
I look for doors

Why God Drops Us Out of Windows

2010-04-28T16:36:00.000-05:00

so we splat, of course
our body must seep back into earth
twist into mud and burn
turn towards the center molten
revisit the core
remember

sirens wind our minds stupid
others invade, destroy imagination with
twinkling diamond promises and caviar
tunnels winding into shallow waters
restricting rooms
reviled networking

so we spar for cubicles
outside outsourced outwitted outlying
twittering fools fiending for dream
tongues to give voice to
revisionist programming
rivers sonic streaming

see we must splat, set a new course
our body must break, shock
twinge and shake convulse froth
tense into nothing shadow light
reframe itself
revise

bleed and scream into a river of red orange black heat and new horizon

Candido Veras, the Underdog, or, I Wanna Be Your Dog

2010-02-27T13:11:00.011-06:00

I once had a student tell me that he didn't care to know about Caribbean history, that the way the culture in the Caribbean had influenced U.S. culture was not too important, not like the way Latin, for example, had been such a strong influence. He was a young fraternity pledge and drew no connection between the Latin he was learning in his frat to the concept of Latinidad. By the end of the semester, he seemed to have changed his tune, having worked on a group project with a very wise Latina student, but I never forgot the initial stance he had. I never forgot his initial stance because I encounter it all the time, not from the young and inexperienced, but from adults, adults who see the Caribbean as a backdrop to the U.S., not the place that has provided us with food and culture that has influenced everything from jazz to hip hop to how we dance, not the place that provided the first European settlers in the Americas with a sugar economy that allowed countries like the U.S. to grow. To such folks, the Caribbean is a vacation, a colorful backdrop, like a painting in our work environment that we pass by but hardly look at.

The painting you see posted here is much larger than the electronic version implies. It is about 15 feet across and six feet tall. It hangs within the winding staircase that leads to the John Peace Library at the University of Texas at San Antonio. It was created by Candido Veras, an amazing San Antonio artist who also happened to be Dominicano. He died last year with very little fanfare.

I first met Candido on the day Vincent and I moved into the Blue Star Arts complex. As soon as he and his sister saw us, they knew we were Caribbean and we were met with smiles and squeals of welcome. I noticed the Dominican flag in his window and immediately felt at home. Candido treated us like family. When I got sick, he had a special tea for me. At Christmas, he made us pasteles. He showed us all his art and photos he had taken with the mayor and other local dignitaries. He came to our parties and made sure everyone was smiling and laughing. However, our friendship was short-lived because Blue Star management pretty much kicked him out of his space, even though he had lived there since the property opened. Candido had become sick with cancer after having been exposed to asbestos on the property and he implied that management wanted him out for that reason. The last time Vincent and I saw him, he was living in a cold-water loft, kiddie corner from the Alamo. The space was enormous, cool, with neon lettering from the front of the building shining through the curved windows, but the plumbing was bad and there wasn't any heat or proper circulation. It was painful to see him living that way, and I didn't know what to do.

Soon, Vincent and I moved out of the Blue Star and we lost touch with Candido. I found out he was ill because someone posted something here on the blog about it. Shortly after that, I found out he had passed away. How is it that someone who has their work of art in a government-sponsored institution can simply be forgotten in such a way? His work was excellent and he was always working on new paintings. Candido could not be called a lazy man - dude was always hustling, and doing it with a smile, no matter how sick he was. It is attitudes like the one I referred to at the beginning of this blog that allow this to happen. Candido was not just a talented Caribbean man, he was also a talented American, San Antonian, Texan. Dig? His language, colors, voice, affect the students at UTSA every time they pass by his painting, whether they notice it or not.

And this brings me to my point. I know exactly why Candido was allowed to pass away unnoticed. It was because he lived an alternative lifestyle, he was eccentric and strange, but most importantly, he was a Black Latino who was eccentric and living an alternative lifestyle. Era Caribeno, and we still refuse to see how the people who we have had an intimate relationship with since 1492 continue to influence and inspire us, feed us and provide us with economic opportunity, change the way we think and live. La influencia de los Caribenos. Caribbeans have been placed in the position of flavoring. That is, we add to the mix a bit of spice, but we are not the true substance. At least, that's what people convince themselves.

However, lest you think I'm just on a racial/ethnic tip, let me point out that this is a tendency we all have, regardless of race. For example, it is well known that David Bowie stole/bought ideas from Iggy Pop, Joey Arias, Peter Murphy and Klaus Nomi, but those other guys were never allowed the power of Bowie. It is also well known that Madonna has amazed the world with her brilliance by using ideas from young Black and Latino dancers in NYC, Bjork, and Lenny Kravitz, to name just a few. Bjork and Kravitz have attained their own glory, but they had to allow Madonna to pass their work off as her own (collaboration, my ass). Close to my heart, the punk movement was started by poor kids in England, including the Caribbean ska movement that was popularized there by multiple young Black artists; now, that has been absorbed by watered down acts like Green Day (on Broadway, for heaven's sake) and No Doubt, which stand for the exact opposite of what punk originally intended. I cannot lie - this kind of stuff makes me a hater, hater, hater. I cannot stand when the smaller guy influences the bigger guy and gets no credit. It makes my blood boil thick. I cannot stand that we, at UTSA, get to enjoy Candido's art, yet most of us who pass by it have no idea who he was or why who he was might be important to us. Perhaps, this is why I married Vincent, who always takes the time to find out names and history. There is a reason I call him the librarian.

There are those of us who will never get a ticker tape parade, or accepted into an MFA program, or an Academy Award, or even a memorial event, after we die, at the school where our work hangs. Iggy Pop isn't getting invited to the White House (although, I really think it's a shame cuz I'd pay to see that). But even Iggy Pop has international fame and gets some perks. There are people right now who have international fame but are considered so unimportant by some, that they are homeless. Tato Laviera is considered one of the U.S.'s most important authors, for his poetic descriptions of what it is like to be from more than one place. He is revered in Europe and Africa, to name a few continents. Just a few weeks ago the New York Times ran an article about his homelessness. Luckily, the Latino/a population of writers and family in New York has been holding fundraisers to counteract what has been happening to Laviera, but he has come dangerously close to the fate of Julia de Burgos, the Puerto Rican poet who died unknown in Harlem. She has been called Puerto Rico's greatest poet, by the way, and she forged an honesty in her poetry that few Latinas allowed themselves in her day. For her honesty, she was repaid with poverty and obscurity. How can we do this to these people who have taught us so much?

There should be something, something for the person who was badass, did his/her own thing, didn't kiss anyone's ass to get the grant, always worked hard to be creative without any thanks (or without pay or dignity, in the case of the slaves in the sugarcane fields), who created beauty while being ignored (until the beauty was appropriated for someone else's use), who fed and cared for the unappreciative, whose history was buried or discarded, who found the missing history and brought it to life, regardless.

What is that something, I wonder. It should not be in the afterlife because that's just b.s. We need to tell these folks here and now that they are valuable. I guess that's about all we can do.

Leaks

2009-12-21T00:55:00.002-06:00

“I’m leaking.”

Emilio looked at Panama’s wrinkled brow face and held down the desire to laugh. She always takes these things a little too seriously, he thought. He wriggled his freckled nose under his wire glasses and settled his face into what he thought might pass for compassion, rested his vision on her soft, fuzzy, amber hair, her oiled ebony eyes.

“I knew you’d give me that face,” she said with bite, ignoring his phony gesture, standing up from the sofa and moving away from him.

“Wha…what?” Emilio pretended he didn’t know that she could see through him.

“You of all people should know what this could mean, now that I’m visiting my family. It’s enough that they’ve…I could really hurt them, Emilio, and you choose to treat me like I’m crazy…when you know the truth. You know it, damn it, and you act like you don’t!” She stomped around the compact living room, mentally bombing furniture too big for New York walk-ups with her atomic steps.

“So what, you’re not gonna go?” Emilio asked.

“You know I shouldn’t.”

“What would your family think?”

“The same thing they’ve always thought. That I think I’m better. That I don’t care about them. That I’m a typical gringa.” Panama’s pounding feet stopped at a wall. She rested her head on the moulding with 80 years of lead, then oil, then acrylic paint. “And maybe I am,” she said with a softer voice, “maybe I am all of those things. And even if I weren’t, it doesn’t matter because of this damn leak!” Panama sighed and cringed her face into the wall.

“But no one has proven…”

Panama straightened up, eyes fire bright and on Emilio as she put on her shoes.

“You are a liar, Emilio. You knew the risks when I took the shots and you know I’m leaking now. All of us are. If anyone admitted the truth the whole damn country would be quarantined,” Panama’s viper tone was precise but Emilio didn’t notice. He figured she’d go to the corner bar and get over it, like she always did at moments like this. Somehow, he knew it would all work out, although a tiny part of him wondered if it was the chips, but that tiny part of him was very small and very faraway.

Emilio thought the vaccine would be a good idea, based on what his boss at P&D Tech said, especially since Panama was already so sickly. The anti-depressant aspect of it was especially appealing because Panama was having a hard time adjusting to life with him, supporting his work. But the nanotechnology was new and, yes, it was leaking. The nanochip vaccine was so small, leaked through nearly every membrane it encountered, and even if it did stay in cells long enough to reprogram viruses, the leaks were trouble. Remnants of the nanochip injections were being found in water supplies and all the organic structures that lived in the nearby rivers, for example. Nanochips were floating in the air and causing respiratory disease because once exposed to city pollutants, the nanochips would change into highly unstable structures. Public laundromats were starting to require proof that patrons hadn’t been injected because their clothes would get infested and then the chips would bond with metals in the washing machines and dryers, damaging them at great cost to the business. Bad leaks.

Panama knew she was leaking when she began to notice the changes in behavior of those around her. Anyone who she shook hands with or hugged, after a few days, would start to act different, happier maybe, but not him- or herself. It was as if the personality was not entirely there. The Indian lady at the corner shop, Samira, with her auctioneer lightning-speed energy, who served up bagels and coffee to countless city folk every morning lost the prickly spike in her voice and wasn’t nearly as fast as she once was. Emilio said she was getting old but Panama wasn’t convinced. The neighbor’s daughter, Zafira, stopped jumping rope with the other girls. It could have been she was the best of all the double-dutch goddesses, moving like an electron that bounces between two ions in a ping-pong universe rhythm. Zafira still sat on the stoop, quite content, but she did not play. The day Panama began to put together all the instances and circumstances, each handshake, each hug, each cheek kiss that spread the effects of the vaccine, how she too had stopped what fulfilled her most, and how she too felt no loss, after assessing all this, she threw up in the toilet of her tiny bathroom. It took her half an hour to flush the toilet, knowing that her leak would be spread along with swirls of sucked down water.

The only person who wasn’t affected by her leaking was the bartender around the corner, Andino, and it was to his wooden perch she now went. Panama walked in and sat at the corner end of the empty bar. It was still early, the mid-afternoon sun glowing on the brown stain. She was happy there was no one around, no one to touch. She hadn’t touched anyone for two months now, except Emilio, but even that was becoming less frequent, not because of the leak but because of other reasons.

“How’s my favorite?” Andino said with a crumpled smile. The lines in his tan and grey face were due to smiles and worries, but more smiles than worries.

“Lousy.”

Andino raised his eyebrows, slowly spun around, grabbed bitters, whiskey and sugar, and muddled up an old fashioned. He set it in front of Panama and asked, “Why are you lousy? What’s up?”

“I’m leaking,” she began, and didn’t pause when Andino looked genuinely sad, “and the reason I got this way is because Emilio encouraged me to get the injections, you know, his job. Everyone I touch, everywhere I go, I just spread this numb, fake contentment, and it makes me sick. It’s like spreading mediocrity.”

“Why do you think Emilio…”

“Because he’s a coward, the poor thing. I can’t say I don’t totally understand him. I got sick here, the germs, the pollution, it lead to asthma, and I wasn’t happy. When the anti-viral/anti-depressive combo came out, he thought we could both take it to make things easier. All it did was make me stop dancing…and the worst of it was I didn’t miss it. Imagine not missing the one thing you loved most.”

Andino poured himself a shot of whiskey.

Panama continued. “Andino, why haven’t I made you cold? I’ve touched your hand, I’m sure. Why hasn’t my leak affected you?”

Andino blinked several times and smiled nervously. “I’ve been exposed,” he revealed quietly. “You’re not the only one who has come in here…like that, with the nanochips. We’ve all been exposed. But I get a few things from my family, teas, recipes, they counteract the cold numb.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, sometimes all the chips, they are too much, you can’t…but my family recipes help.”

Panama took a sip of the old fashioned, made perfectly. “My aunt, it is her 75th birthday and the family offered me a ticket, you know, to go see her. I’m afraid to go. I’m afraid of spreading the leak.”

“Panama, you have to go!”

“But they are…they are…pure. If I go and give them the chips, the cold numb, if I leak all this onto them, I could never forgive myself.”

Andino contemplated the word pure for a moment, and then he spoke. “What makes you think they don’t already have it?”

“What?”

“People from here travel everywhere and we spread it all, you know that. Plus, I bet your family, just like mine, has stuff, herbs, to suppress the leak, maybe even end it. You know, you don’t know what your family may be spreading. Maybe they have their own leaks, better leaks, hopefully.”

There was a moment of silence between the bartender and his patron.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

After two more old fashioneds, Panama went back to her stoop. She saw Zafira sitting there, watching the other girls play, and Panama bent over and whispered something in her ear. Zafira looked puzzled, but then smiled after Panama as she walked up the steps. When Panama walked into the cramped one-bedroom, she saw Emilio on his computer, a familiar scary-zombie sight.

“I’m going to see my family,” she said.

“Really?” Emilio answered without looking away from the screen’s siren glow.

“Yes. And…and you are coming with me, Emilio. I’m taking you with me. We’re going together.”

Emilio looked away from the screen, turned to Panama, and was surprised that he was able to see her without his eyes adjusting to the darkness, her eyes bright with liquid.

New Poem

2009-10-06T16:05:00.008-05:00

Sometimes poems take a while. Almost everyone who knows me knows some of my story about moving to New York. I've always wanted to write about it, but I didn't have the words. Some conversations over the past week - with Marilyn Torres, Ernie Silva, Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhran, and of course, Vincent - have really helped me. I also think that getting to the point where my coursework is done, my proposal has (for the most part) been approved and I just have to start the dissertation, has really scared the heck out of me. I've been blocked in some ways, but songs and poetry are coming out of nowhere, so I might as well share them. I think that maybe writing this poem is reminding me to keep on, despite those difficult times. I don't have a title yet. Please tell me what you think.

what do you do
when you are so super tiny small
that frijole kitchen talking never embraces you
or Mami or Tia or anyone without bold blast speeches
that sound super boombox big so loud so loud
drowning your voicewhisper under rivers of cancer kool aid
mind menacing threats of being called stooopiiidd
like playground slapshaking under monkeybar jungles
so you never ever talk so afraid to talk not even mouth
words that your face muscle nerve endings freeze
Chicago winter cold freeze holding your movements solid
frozen stuck in a goofy clown mask held in
permanent suspended disbelief, like an icicle that won't melt?

what do you do
when you are heartgut silent
hands covered in computertechnodance paint smeared
all over floorboard stomps and gingiggle nights that don't ask
about stooopiiid talk or blackbeatpeat history
entrails piled in loft corners smoke and siren
artists get shot and murdered every night and rise again
every night, dancing zombies slam and skank and clownsmile
because it is easier than speaking and saying who you are
fearfrightened of being nothingnada solalala
abuela gone only saw the gringa not the mujer
nothing to reflect back the abuela in the gringa
just an empty gringazombieshell?

que triste she is blind

what do you do
when you are on your elbows and face
blubbering begging at someone's feet at 4 a.m.
"be my friend, let me love you"
and he splinter slams a bathroom door on your anklebone
laughs at your dreams
throws carefully composed music carelessly
around your head like spike bombs with corners
that snip nip at your ears and chin
strikes your favorite wood chest into spine threads with one swoop
and seals chaos crashes with spit
between your eyes
as he mutters "you're nothing"?

RECUERDAAAAAAA! MEMORIAAAAAAA! PRONUNCIAAAAAAA!

you stand
higher than the thickest redwood with roots
that reach down to the hell source itself
and you spit blood-
filled songs and fire that's hot and warm and sticky
with stories that stretch from Africa
to Cuba to Colombia to Chicago to New York to San Francisco to San Antonio
from sad sad brother to lonely lonely brother
to earnest earnest father to brilliant brilliant mother
and you laugh at your dreams
because they are symphonies under your tongue
star storytelling under your curious feet
projections flickering before your eyes

so sad that he is blind

you jump
over the rubble rat mountains and giggle
at the screech-screech of crab mentality
instead opting for the green of grass-
hoppers and frenzied action of pill-
poppers without the pills or flimsy quitter motives
your freak frenetic dance takes you to
poetry and boys with bass guitars and shine
spilling out of their eyes and girls with
honest irony in their cigarette slide wit
and viejitos who cook for you, expecting nothing
nothing nothing
but to see you grow deeper into lava, higher into space

you fly
like the new millenium-falcon-eagle-perico-flamboyan
flashing tacky and Gaudi and color Caribeno
know all the while he's saying, she's saying, they're saying
"ah, who does she think she is"
not realizing she isn't thinking, she's flying and
all she ever wanted was for you to fly, too
like a Colorin Colorado comet alien invasion
un sofrito freedom de momento, mama
a Creole-lindo mundo swirling with shrimp and cayenne y arroz
an explosion, a bomb that doesn't crash holes into soil
no, a bomb that flies like fireworks fire, like warmth, like the sun
big and small and round and angular, all-encompassing, glittery and fine

only lost to the blind

Town Hall in Texas: I Need a Despojo!

2009-08-28T21:50:00.005-05:00

Yesterday, I received an email from my Congressman, Representative Ciro Rodriguez. Well, the email was actually from one of my Obama email lists, but it encouraged me to go to a town hall on health care reform right here in San Antonio! I was excited. I told Vincent and we signed right up. We are both in the process of moving, but we are both so passionate about health care reform, we were willing to make the time to go to Palo Alto College and get down with the politics. Now, I was a little surprised at how late I got the email - only 24 hours in advance? That didn't give most folks much time to find out about the town hall. And I didn't hear about it anywhere else but through my email list; not everyone has email. Hmmm. Oh, well! I heard about it and I was going to take advantage of it. I was going to be a productive citizen and show up and speak up! I printed out my little pro-health reform signs that came with my registration for the town hall and got ready to go after a day of writing follow-up reports for my teaching fellowship, perfecting syllabi, and packing a few things.

Vincent showed up at 5:00, so we jumped in the car to get to the venue because they would start letting people in at 5:30 p.m. We drove to the far away campus, on the south side of the city, and I was concerned about the access that other folks would have. Well, at least we had a car that would allow us to get there in time after work. As we walked in, and I noticed all of the red-white-and-blue shirts and caps, I got a little nervous. Palo Alto college is known for being diverse, but the crowd didn't look it at all. It was mainly an older crowd and they were not nearly as urban or cosmopolitan as the San Antonians that Vincent and I know. None of the people in line looked like they went to Palo Alto College or any other college in San Antonio. None of them looked like they even lived in San Antonio. We saw two people we knew: one is an activist and the other is a journalist. Where were all the people who we know are very interested in this debate? None of them were able to show up? I got more nervous. I remembered promising my friend Jenny to speak on her behalf. She is someone who had breast cancer a few years ago and she had a full masectomy. Jenny now pays $600 a month for her health insurance and the company is now denying her the option to get an MRI. Her insurance company says that her history with breast cancer is not cause to pay for it. Most women know that an MRI is more reliable and less invasive or dangerous than a mammogram, but I guess Jenny's insurance company doesn't care. She was happy when I said I'd try to speak on her behalf. Sorry, Jenny, but when I saw the crowd I was in line with, there was no way I was going to try to ask a question. There was a woman who said we couldn't even take our pro-health care reform signs in - and Ciro's email was the one that told us to print them out! We stood in line and started to freak out a little more.

These were the people who were in front of us in line: Man in a shirt with the flag and the Constitution emblazoned on it, eating Whataburger chicken strips, Texas toast and gravy, dipping everything into the gravy, wearing jeans with a belt made entirely out of velcro (why, you might ask - because he can adjust it to any size as his stomach grows - he adjusted his belt, making that weird velcro scraping noise, several times while we were in line); Woman, also eating Whataburger, planting her purse on a nearby chair, eating her burger in pieces (bread first, then cheese, then the tomato, then the burger patty), taking her time, ignoring the line moving in front of her, letting all of us wait behind her until she was ready to move her stuff off of the nearby chair. Behind us, two men spoke of how unions had served their purpose once but now they are all corrupt and serve no purpose, especially when all of us are being taken care of, anyway. I thought of the union formed at my old community college that allowed adjunct profs. to get paid more than below minimum wage finally.

We gave our tickets at the door and found aisle seats because I figured we may need to make a quick getaway. I didn't realize exactly how bad it would be. How could I have known? After watching kids do a color guard routine and listening to a young girl sing our national anthem better than Sheryl Crow, Henry Cisneros himself - da man! - came out and said he would be the moderator. Wow - he's like royalty down here and I was really shocked to see him head the event. He introduced Congressman Ciro, who then gave a brief slideshow on the finer points of the new bill. We were already running late and it seemed like Ciro didn't really want to be fielding questions. It was like he was putting the meat of the event off as long as possible. Cisneros pointed out that the auditorium was divided into six sections. They would field a question from each section, one at a time, and then return to the first section and start all over again. Vinny and I placed bets on how soon "crazy" would enter the auditorium. He said by the first question; I said by the third. We were both wrong. It came in at question two.

This is what happened at the Texas Town Hall:

1) A bunch of KKK members or whatever you want to call 'em got together earlier in the week and decided they were all going to the town hall in great numbers and they were going to ask questions that had absolutely nothing to do with the health care bill or health care reform.

2) They planted themselves in each of the six sections, as if they were strangers, even though they knew each other, so that they could be called on more often.

3) They made sure they had enough numbers so that when each one of them spoke, they could cheer very loudly and drown out any dissent from any of the rest of us.

4) If a normal person without any inbreeding in their background actually got a question in, they made loud noises and rude remarks so that person's question could not be heard.

5) Some of the distractions included: a statement by a plant who spoke of a woman on Medicare who died of cancer because she was denied coverage (still don't know how that relates to the new bill); the ever present assumption that the elderly are going to be killed by the new bill; and (this is what made me leave the joint), the implication that Congressman Rodriguez believes in killing human beings because he has not directly stated that he will make sure that the new bill does not cover abortion and the murder of fetuses.

I saw these freaks in line and they all knew each other. They came in together and they all sat in different locations in the auditorium. There were people around us who were just as stunned as we were at the ignorance of the questions/statements that were coming from the mouths of these mongrels, but no one would have known it because all of these a-holes had so many of their friends there, when they cheered each other on, it felt like the whole auditorium agreed with them. I told Vincent I was ready to go. We immediately went to our favorite gay-friendly restaurant, Candlelight, in order to feel better and to begin the despojo. Pa fuera con el diablo!

After talking about this horrid event over dinner, Vincent and I agreed that town halls are a great idea and these vermin are attempting to make democracy into a repulsive, vomit-inducing orgy of troglodytic behavior. That is, they want people like us, who want to be involved and have the time to be involved, to be repulsed and leave. They don't want sane, educated citizens with decent minds and spirits to come together and have a real conversation. Who is "they?" I'm not sure. Certainly not President Obama, who proposed the town hall meetings. Perhaps some of you may have some theories, but all I can say is that I truly believe that I have been to my first and, hopefully, only KKK rally. When I saw all of those angry people hoot and holler for each other and very effectively shut down any voice of reason in the room, I was frightened for my life.

What's worse is that the cameras, of course, were totally focused on these swamp larvae, so now when future generations look back on who we were during present times, they will have a digital record of the worst of us. There were fights in the audience!!! People were hitting each other! This is what I became an adult for??Nowhere will our great grandchildren see the quiet folks on the sidelines, interested in exposing the corruption of insurance companies, wishing to take care of each other with kind and wise programs that provide for all. They'll just see a bunch of poorly coiffed, fast-food eating weasels who have probably never stepped outside of their small towns except for this moment, when they drove to San Antonio and purported to represent a city that they still believe they took away from the Mexicans. Let me tell you something: you predatory scum rats never took anything away from anyone...just look around. San Antonio is still a Spanish name, as far as I know. I can't wait 'til your Whataburger waistlines kick in. Then who'll be asking for health reform? Should be reforming that messed up quadruple X hiney of yours. Maybe some of Obama's suggested preventative care could take care of that, get your booty to the damn gym, have Ciro create more bike paths and walkways.

I don't mean to get petty, but I simply cannot explain how violent this event was. I said it before and I'll say it again: it felt like a KKK rally. I feel bad that my time was wasted but also that Ciro's time was wasted on this ignorance.

Ciro had some stunning statistics during his presentation, and that is what I'll leave you with:

- 40% of businesses said they will try to stop providing healthcare for their workers in the next five years (they can't do it economically)

- 60% of bankruptcies in 2007 were due to medical bills

- in 1987, healthcare cost an average family about 7% of their income; today it is about 17% of their income (don't forget that rent/mortgage percentages have also gone up)

For more stats on Ciro's site, click here.

For the latest article on the event, click here.

I wish I could say the despojo was complete, but I don't think so. Maybe some of you have words of encouragement? Until then, I'll try burning some incense. Wish me luck!

The Many-Faced Race: A Phenotype Cuento in Pictures

2009-07-21T14:52:00.019-05:00

My friend Nadiyah posted a cool preview of a film that examines being a bi-racial person. She has a child who will grow up with the concept, so as the good mom that she is, she is trying to be sensitive to what that will be like. Coping with the attitudes, blessings and complexities that go along with being bi-racial is not easy, so imagine growing up with a race that morphs with the years. This sounds like something out of a sci-fi novel, something that surely Octavia Butler has written about somewhere, but actually, many of us have so many racial influences in our blood that we simply don't know what we will look like from year-to-year. I'll attempt to tell my story, or cuento (story in Spanish), with many pictures to guide you.

This is an image of my mother when she was somewhere around 20 years old. Most people would guess that she is Latina (whatever that means racially) or White.

This is an image of my father when he graduated from seminary. He was around 23, give or take. Depending on who you ask, some people might say he looks Asian. Indeed, he has often been confused for being Filipino, but if you take the cap off, you might guess that he's Black. Others might put him into the Latino default, which as I've implied before, says nothing about a person's race (Latino/a implies culture). Ultimately, when he and Mami got married, my grandfather didn't go to the wedding because Papi "era muy negro," which meant he was too Black.

This is a picture of me. I clearly didn't want to take the picture, but I remember digging this bikini. We can see my textured hair here. Not exactly a fro, but I had enough pouf to make Mami start wrapping my hair every night so that it would be nice and straight (she has since changed her mind about such things - I love you, Mami!)

In this picture you see the headband that Mami used to smooth my hair, but you can also see that my skin is darker. This pic was taken during Christmas, so my color was not a tan. The previous pic was during the summer and my skin was lighter. This is not camera trickery! Hence, the morphing racial features have begun!

Mami left Cuba before she graduated to marry Papi, but she was determined to get the diploma. We all went to her graduation around 1982 or '83, when I was in sixth grade. It was at this age I got my first perm, or relaxer. I remember many boys thinking I was pretty that year. Notice how different we all look. Luis, my oldest brother, on the far right, is White. He looks like an Italian hit man. :) Carlos, the middle brother, on the far left, looks very Colombian, sporting indigenous features.

By eighth grade, I had cut my hair because short on the sides, long in the front (with perhaps some Sun-In) was the rage, although I didn't exactly look like the kids on American Bandstand. I looked more like the young adults on Soul Train. But I cannot say that just cutting my hair short brought the kink out; my hair was different than it was when I was younger. It got kinkier around this time. When I was born, my hair had softer curls. Now they were in full force. I'm glad I was going to a predominantly Black school at this time because my peers there really helped me understand myself racially.

Mami, who actually has a Black grandmother, was not taught about her Black side of the family. An aunt she had who openly admitted to being Black was shunned from the family. So, Mami didn't know how to do my hair. It was easy for me to adopt the punk style because I could just hairspray the heck out of my kinky hair. Papi hated it. Still, we smiled for the cameras.

By the time I graduated high school, I was getting perms more often and I grew my hair out. Even though I was into getting tan, my skin looks lighter here. You can see my abuela here (Papi's mother) and my Tia Nohemi (far right). Abuela has gotten paler with age but Tia is still dark. Mami (far left) continues to be the lightest member of the family, with white skin and hazel eyes. My facial features during this time in my life have everyone asking, "What are you?" When I was this age, I was confused for everything, even Japanese, which I think is insane.

This is a picture from a trip to Colombia when I was 19. My cousin, Dorcas, is next to me. She has curly hair like me, but she doesn't perm it. Her brother, Moneno (that's his nickname), is to the far left and you can't see it because of his cap, but his hair is wavy, not kinky like Dorcas'. My uncle, Dorcas' father, is at the far right and though he is dark, he is not Black. He probably has ancestry that is indigenous and/or from the Indian population that can be found in South America. There are many people of Indian ancestry that are in Guyana, which is east of Colombia.

College was an enlightening time and at this point I'm wearing my hair natural and calling myself a Black Latina. This is me working at Extra Bilingual Community Newspapers, which was Chicago's only bilingual newspaper at the time.

However, it was this look that got me the most dates, unfortunately. I would sometimes take two hours to blow dry my hair straight and everyone liked it. My parents liked it, my girlfriends liked it, and lots of boys liked it. I ended up resenting that people liked me more when my hair was straighter. I felt they were responding to what race my hair texture implied. But in the end, if I blow dry it and press it, I don't have to wash it for a few days. If I leave it curly, I have to wash and style it every morning. So, nowadays...

...I may go straight, or...

I may go curly.

So what race am I? I can't call myself bi-racial like the subjects in the video Nadiyah posted. I've often said I'm mixed or multi-racial, but many times I feel I must call myself Black because Latinos/as don't recognize or speak about our African ancestry often enough. However, calling myself Black does not mean that I am recognized as Black by others. What would you call me? Would you call me different things depending on the picture? What about my niece, Elizabeth?

She's the White baby in the middle of the photo. I'm freaking out because she smiled at me or something. She's Carlos' daughter. Carlos, when filling out paperwork for her birth, had to pick between two categories to describe himself: White or Black. He picked Black. His wife, Lori, was surprised at his decision, but the way Carlos saw it, he sure as heck isn't White, so he chose Black. What does that make Elizabeth, who has white skin and dark blonde hair? Is she bi-racial? Or is she everything that both sides of the family are? Or is she simply what she appears to be to any person who might be looking at her?

For me, she is family. We are all family.

**I have a poem, "Pressure Mix," that addresses being mixed in the NAACP nominated CHECK THE RHYME. There is a link to it on the right.

Is Gregg Araki Mad (Cowgirl)?

2009-06-29T16:52:00.007-05:00

I am totally biased and nothing you say will ever sway me. Despite the gratuitous violence and sick plotlines that reveal a director that revels in prurient interests, I am an unabashed Gregg Araki fan. Gregg Araki can do no wrong. Even when he is wrong, he is 100% right for me. If I were a gay man, I would want to be Gregg Araki. Heck, I love my life and I still wouldn’t mind being Gregg Araki for a day.

Gregg Araki is the director of the cult classics The Living End, The Doom Generation, Nowhere, Splendor, and Smiley Face. He also directed the more widely distributed Mysterious Skin, and the lesser known films, Totally F***ed Up, The Long Weekend (O’Despair) and Three Bewildered People in the Night. He wrote a pilot for MTV called This is How the World Ends, but it never made it as a regular series. I have had the privilege of seeing The Living End, The Doom Generation, Splendor, Smiley Face and Mysterious Skin (almost all of which I own). Totally F***ed Up is now on my Netflix cue. A brief summary of each:

1) The Living End is a very low-budget film about two guys driving around L.A., in a desperate state because they are both HIV positive. The early Araki film was the groundwork for Araki’s talent at writing witty, L.A.-based dialogue. There are also some slick shots of locales and the two actors are chosen well. They are attractive but not too glossy; they have edge, which is necessary for the dark humor of Araki films. This is an okay starting point, but towards the end, the film falls flat.

2) The Doom Generation has cameos by Heidi Fleiss, Perry Farrell and Parker Posey. In my opinion, it is the film that allowed Rose McGowan to do everything she has done in Hollywood. James Duval (Keanu Reeves for the underground set) is perfect as the guy who goes along with pretty much anything, probably because it feels good, and Johnathan Schaech was doing things like How to Make an American Quilt before DG demonstrated to the public that he was perfectly nasty enough to be the next B-Blue-Movie Star. This over-the-top film is another road trip where Jordan and Amy (Duval and McGowan) are forced into becoming serial killers after they pick up Xavier (Schaech). When Netflix first started, there were LOTS of posts calling Doom Generation the worst movie in existence. Now, Facebook has several fan pages devoted to the movie and its director. The reasons why it has a cult following include the visually interesting artistic design that owes a lot to raves and DJ culture, the hilarious dry dialogue (think Tarantino with queer call-you-out edge and female rhythm that plays both bawdy and soft notes), the sexy actors, and a killer soundtrack. This is the film that begins to display Araki’s world appropriately.

3) If DG began to display the Araki imagination, Nowhere sealed the space and made it concrete. The dialogue is fast and offensive, the framing of the color-saturated shots is always perfect, and the insistence on reminding the viewer that Araki can marry the high-tech with the ridiculously low-budget into a fabulous union is key. Nowhere is a day in the life of a college kid, Dark, who just wants to find someone to love. Unfortunately, his plan is thwarted by his slutty girlfriend and a pesky alien. This film also includes a sort-of-road trip to find JuJyFruit’s party. Expect to see pretty much everyone who has been a player in Hollywood for the past few decades: Rachel True, Debi Mazar, Ryan Phillipe, Heather Graham, Gibby Haynes, Denise Richards, Beverly D’Angelo, two of the Brady Bunch kids, Mena Suvari, Traci Lords, Shannon Doherty, Chiara Mastroianni, Scott Caan…and there are a lot more! I have to shout out Guillermo Díaz, too, who actually starred in a New York production of Vincent’s play, Bong Hits. Some might write-off the film as shallow, but to me it is actually a campy examination of how shallow L.A. can be. Araki is joyfully and viciously making fun of a place he both loves and hates.

4) Splendor is the film that made me aware just how talented Araki is. He took the screwball comedy format and actually made it believable in a non-traditional relationship situation. I have no interest in “threesome” relationships. As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t met one that lasted. However, by the end of Splendor, you are totally rooting for the threesome! They are so sweet and cute and man, those yellow gels just make their world seem totally perfect! The movie follows Veronica (played by Kathleen Robertson), who moved to L.A. to become an actress but cannot secure much more than the occasional temp job or a promotional gig at the auto show. When two guys want to date her, she sees the opportunity to do something “original,” as she calls it. Actually, it is quite cliché and icky: she convinces both guys to sleep with her at the same time. Wow, cuz that’s what small-town/suburban girls think moving to the big city is all about: weird screw situations. I disagree, but somehow, we sympathize, even when V. get’s pregnant. Somehow she lands a TV movie and the director/producer, Ernest, “falls in love” with her and she decides to leave her threesome and marry the director because it is best for her baby. She even has the arty sidekick friend who warns her that juggling three men is bad, bad, bad. Duh! But I dare you to watch the film and see if you don’t find yourself engaged. The jokes are funny, everything looks pretty, and the ending is actually believable (aside from the pool thing).

5) Mysterious Skin is the more “Hollywood” film and very little of the Araki humor is found in this one. This is a serious film about molestation and its after-effects. We find the killer Araki soundtrack, the great visuals that are made complete with good make-up and costume choices, and a group of actors that are compelling to watch (Joseph Gordon-Leavitt, Elisabeth Shue, Brady Corbett). The film is based on a novel by Scott Heim. The subject matter isn’t easy and I can’t say I ever want to see this movie again, even though I thought it was excellent after I saw it. I will say, however, that Araki cannot make a movie without leaving some of his stamps on it. I believe this one starts out with mist, just like Nowhere does. For a glimpse at the script to Araki's MTV pilot, which starts out with a misty shower scene nearly identical to Nowhere's opening scene, click here, and click the link "This is How the World Ends" on the left of the screen.

6) I am so glad that someone finally made a stoner film with a woman as the main character. Smiley Face is just that. I’m not sure I like the Manifesto part of the movie but every other part is HA-LA-RI-OUS! I don’t believe Anna Faris would have gotten her House Bunny film without having done this one first, but that’s just my opinion. They were made so close together, that could be totally wrong. Faris plays Jane, an actress in Hollywood that has pretty much screwed everything up due to her obsession with mary jane. We are allowed to see just how her screwed up life came to a head on one particular day. Bright, sunny lighting abounds and Faris’ comedic timing when imagining what her roommate does on his own time or when attempting to audition whilst lit up like a X-mas tree hits the funny bone in just the right place. The Araki humor is back with this one. Again, he forces the viewer to sympathize with someone who normally wouldn’t garner sympathy from her own parents. Shouldn’t Araki be doing commercials? You’ll see great parts by Danny Masterson and Jane Lynch in this one.

So, why am I putting my ode to Araki in print, you might be wondering by now. A couple of reasons. First, I want to defend him. There are the accusations of shallowness, of violence, of debauchery. Araki has a dramatic sense of humor, kind of like what you might find in the films Girls Will Be Girls or Die, Mommy, Die! He goes to extremes but in such a campy way, it is meant to be laughed at. No, not like how we laugh at death in Tarantino films, which has begun to really bother me. Araki goes to extremes in order to show us how ridiculous we are. In Doom Generation, he attacks the crappy food we eat (the characters live on hot dogs and nachos), the heterosexist world, and how even sweet characters inevitably become corrupt or die, regardless of good intention. In Nowhere, characters who are barely 20 years old have come to think of love as a quaint idea that isn’t realistic and despite having families that seem to care, the alienation makes these people, who haven’t even completely formed their identities yet, relate to inspira-junk on televangelist shows more than their own families. Mysterious Skin is an excellent film, just read the reviews. And Smiley Face shows how we jail people who are encouraged to follow an unattainable dream in Hollywood, fail miserably and then resort to anti-social behavior. I mean, just stop letting kids take the bus to that damn Hollywood, already! Stop making kids think they can be discovered. Splendor touches on the same issues.

Second, I have a hunch that Gregg Araki has made more films under aliases, but I can’t be sure. Maybe you can help me with this. I watched Mad Cowgirl a while back and it is one sick film. Totally disgusting. If you have any desire to make someone turn into a vegetarian, either take them on a Texas-Mexico border trip to ranches and U.S.D.A. inspection sites, OR make them watch this film. However, what stood out even more to me was the continuing parallels with other Gregg Araki films. Mad Cowgirl was supposedly written and directed by Gregory Hatanaka. Here are some parallels that I found:

1) ironic TV figures in televangelist cameos: John Ritter plays a televangelist in Nowhere; Walter Koenig plays one in Mad Cowgirl

2) multi-racial casts in nearly all of his films; this one isn’t any different

3) Sarah Lassez, James Duval, Devon Odessa, and Jaason Simmons are all part of this cast and they’ve all been in Araki films (I believe they’re all in Nowhere together, too—in fact, Sarah Lassez and Jaason Simmons are in a scene where Simmons’ character rapes Lassez’s character, in Nowhere; in Mad Cowgirl, she kills him during sex)

4) gratuitous use of colored lights and gels, especially red, green and blue – yellow is also used for happy moments, but what is most important about this is that it is rarely subtle, you can notice it as a viewer

5) shots of people watching TV under “blue” TV light (they have this in a lot of films, but Araki uses it religiously)

6) incest (literally in Mad Cowgirl, virtually in Nowhere, where a brother and sister feel “randy” at the same times)

7) running theme of a woman who can’t pick one man/lover; found in Mad Cowgirl, Nowhere, Doom Generation, and Splendor

8) rape scenes; found in Mad Cowgirl, Doom Generation, and Nowhere

9) killer soundtracks featuring a taste that owes a lot to rave and DJ culture (brought this up earlier), Japanese and Asian pop and alternative, late 80s and 90s new wave/punk/alternative, and what a Wiki entry calls “shoegazing” music (like Jesus and Mary Chain, where the musicians are always looking at distortion pedals, hence “shoegazing”)

10) serial murders; found in Mad Cowgirl, Doom Generation and Nowhere

Now, if Mad Cowgirl had one or two of these elements, I wouldn’t have made the connection, but all of them? Furthermore, the few public photos of Gregory Hatanaka do not show his face directly. They are always at a weird angle that does not allow one to see what he really looks like. I also think it is interesting that they share the same first name. However, I’m not sure. I’m not completely sure if Mad Cowgirl is a Gregg Araki film or if I’m just pining for more films by this man. What do you think?

Other stuff -
For an unofficial Gregg Araki page with some links that work and some that don't, click here.

For an old article on Araki, where Robin Wood totally misses the point of Splendor, click here.

UPDATE: Gregory Hatanaka actually answered a message I wrote to him on fb. He denies being Gregg Araki and was very friendly in his reply. He said he actually gets the Gregg Araki comment a lot and that his influences are actually Takashi Miike and John Cassavetes. He thanked me for watching his film. So, maybe I'm wrong, or maybe he's being polite and lying and he just wants his darn privacy. I hope I didn't bother him too much.

AWP, or Zombie Fest

2009-02-14T18:57:00.003-06:00

At the bookfair today, one of the dudes at the tables called AWP "Zombie Fest," and I was like, "Whaaaa???"

"Man, no one here has had more than seven hours sleep total, we're all wandering around with a glazed look in our eyes, moaning."

OMG, THAT'S TRUE! I was laughing hard. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

YESTERDAY, we set up the Sagebrush end of our booktable and let people know what we were all about by offering issues for free. It was insane madness, with journals, books, membership drives, literary criticism anthologies. People wearing patterned stockings, horn-rimmed glasses and funky knit hats were wandering around, offering book trades and sharing Valentine's Day chocolates and candies.

When Vincent and I got up to wander around and buy books, we ended up seeing a lot of people who we didn't expect to see. First, was Anne-Marie Fowler who has published an anthology of Asian American women writers. It's nice to see a project start as a cfp and then come to fruition. We bought a copy for the UTSA students to enjoy. I met Anne-Marie in New York when she was reading at The Bowery Poetry Club, and she had me as one of the participants of a women writer's workshop in Yellow Springs, Ohio. Ever since then, our paths have continued to cross, so I was happily surprised to see her there.

Then we ran into Maria Mazziotti-Gillan. She is famous for LOTS of great anthologies, one of which I taught at UTSA. I mentioned that some students have a hard time with it and this sweet, dynamic woman was thrilled. "It's supposed to be unsettling!" Hence the title. :)

Later, we ran into Alex Espinoza, author of Still Water Saints and Vincent's Macondo buddy. He had a book table and is staying in the same hotel as us, so we've run into him several times and he is always a happy person to talk to, full of jokes and good spirit.

Other folks we were thrilled to see include Khalil Murrell, of the Geraldine Dodge Poetry Foundation. He's the dude that gets us a gig every April that allows us to go East, read poetry, get paid, and see our friends! And Khalil is an amazingly interesting and talented poet and friend, but more on that in a sec.

After running around at the bookfair, we saw David Vance, who I work with at UTSA, chatted a bit and planned on heading to another panel, but fatigue set in. We'd been up since 8 a.m. and we needed lunch. David directed us to Cafe Intelligentsia, which he argued has the best coffee in the country. After Vincent had a cup, he agreed. Mmmmm.

The panel took backseat to a nap before dinner with friends. Our friend Gerrard, who we hadn't seen since we lived out East, met us in the lounge of our hotel at around 6:30 p.m. and we were soooo happy to see our bandmate. We were catching up on our lives for nearly two hours and we could have gone on and on, but we had other friends to meet!

By 8:30, we were at Ben Pao's for excellent Chinese food. We met with Michelle, Sagebrush Head Officer, and two of my oldest, closest friends, Nancy and her husband Roy. As soon as we all got together, mad joking was the tone for the rest of the evening. Nancy, aw man, she's my homegirl. Because I've had an expense account for the majority of the trip and I haven't had to touch my own cash much, I was finally able to treat all my friends with my own money for the first time in my life, something that they've been doing for me for longer than I can remember. This meant a lot to me. I feel like they deserve so much more, but starving artists can't offer much beyond a work of art. I hope they continue to like my poems.

Our excellent waiter pointed out that I had added a tip when the restaurant already does that. Wow. That doesn't usually happen. We broke him off something for that and he took a photo of all of us which was promptly placed on Facebook. Oh, how cliche'. Since the evening was still young, I suggested, predictably, the 96th floor (the 95th is the restaurant; 96th is the bar) of the John Hancock building, which normally has an awesome view. It had started to snow, but we didn't care. We went anyway.

This time Nancy and Roy treated. They always do that! We laughed loudly some more except when the entire room became eerily silent at my joking about Vincent's friends in Nashville not exactly focusing on my face when I met them. Boy was I red! And Vinny was, too. Total uncomfortable silence moment which caused Gerrard to giggle on cue. What are old friends for if not to witness us fall on our faces?

We left at last call and got a lift to our hotel by Nancy and Roy. Big hugs and a rock in my stomach upon realizing that I have to leave Chicago and all my insides behind again. Nancy and Roy, classy folks that they are, gave Gerrard a ride home to Hyde Park, and Vinny and I slept uncomfortably, missing all of them already.

*

TODAY, we got up LATE.

But, we planned on spending the whole day at the conference. We headed to the bookfair first because we knew some folks would be closing shop. Lots of book deals and lots of great journals for Sagebrush volunteers to learn from. We were able to buy some good books for ourselves, too. Howard Zinn, Bill Ayers, the Helix, Lyric, Rio Grande Review, so many titles I can't list them all. We ran into David again and we mentioned the fatigue and late nights and just nodded. Still, the mood was celebratory. Chocolate and wine was being passed around and one table offered free love poems that you could pick out of a box. My poem was about totally imperfect, poorly matched people being so incredibly happy together. It made me smile.

After our book work, we packed up the goodies and had some lunch in the conference hotel so that we could make the Chicago slam panel on time. Vincent and I talked about the support we had in New York and how whenever someone is struggling on stage, the audience always applauds and "gives love" in order to encourage the writer to keep going and feel comfortable. Even though New York is considered "rude," its poetry and writer scene, though very competitive, is extremely supportive and willing to lend a hand and share and listen. This is where I learned to take my first steps as a real writer. I got choked up at remembering the always there supportive applause, and I realized how much I missed this.

So when we got to the slam panel on time and saw that Marc Smith and the other panelists were not there, it was perfect timing that C.J. Laity, of Chicago Poetry.com, decided to host an impromptu, illegal AWP panel open mic. Everyone who had gathered stayed to watch people go up on a open mic that was totally unplanned. I read a poem, Vincent read a poem, Khalil showed up and read a poem (an AMAZING piece on everything that his father taught him - SO moved), a wonderful Romanian woman read a poem, there was a sarcastic Barnes and Noble poem, a Michelle Obama is my bestie (bestest friend) poem, and poems by so many different poets, it couldn't have been better.

I said it at the mic and I will write it here again: This is exactly what I came here for. No stuffiness, no pompous attitude, just poets sharing their work on the mic. I couldn't have been in a better room of the conference. I think Marc Smith would have loved to have seen the anti-slam, as well. And C.J. Laity remembered me, too! I had met him through Al DeGenova, of After Hours (the journal that published my first poem, "Cubanita"), and he had posted some of my work on his website. Good memory!

Now, I'm headed to meet high school friends at an anti-Valentine's Day party, but really, I'm all about the love right now. I've been emotionally conflicted for much of this trip but some things changed this for me. One was that Marco let me know that the Sagebrush event that I set up but could not attend in San Antonio went very well - opera was sung, apparently! The second was hearing the poets.

There's something cool about knowing that poetry and art is simultaneously going on in various parts of my worlds, near and far. This is so good, I'm finally at a loss for words.

Chicago and AWP, or When Writers Gather

2009-02-13T01:28:00.002-06:00

Despite ridiculous reports that Chicago is a city of misery, I've had the wonderful opportunity to return to my mother city and retrace the concrete cracks of my youth by attending the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) Conference, hosted by my alma mater, Columbia College Chicago. I never even knew about the conference 'til I was asked to attend, by our generous funders, to promote the literary journal I edit, The Sagebrush Review (a journal fully run by undergraduate and graduate students at UTSA). I didn't even have a chance to think about the conference until a few days before I was set to leave, my work schedule being so incredibly hectic. I had qualifying exam committee meetings, Master Teaching Fellowship meetings, interns to direct, poetry/short story readings to plan in absentia, classes to grade papers for, and, oh yeah, clothes to pack and a plane to catch.

Thankfully, despite bad weather, my plane was only delayed a little over an hour. Vincent and I, along with Michelle, the Head Officer of the Sagebrush, checked in to our hotel, The Palmer House Hilton, on Wednesday at around 5 p.m. or so. The plan was to get freshened up (shower) and meet for a nice meal. I'd passed the Palmer House a million times growing up in Chicago, and I knew it was where Tom Cruise met Guido the Killer Pimp in "Risky Business," but I other than using its hallway to get from Wabash to State on cold days, I'd never really stepped inside. The lobby and its bar are incredible. Really regal, old school decadence, or at least that's how they're promoting the place right now. They aren't too far off. The ballrooms and larger spaces are a photographer's dream, but the actual rooms are remodeled spaces that harken back to a time when we were smaller people and when plumbing wasn't so good. Either way, you can't complain about free. I feel very taken care of. So I was happy to look all around at the gilded fixtures and mirrored chandeliers before walking down the street to have good Italian (something which doesn't exist in San Antonio). We went to Italian Village, which is Chicago's oldest Italian restaurant. The pasta and sauces were amazing and Michelle had an excellent moscato. The waiter was super nice, too. After dinner, we talked into the wee hours under the dim lights of the Palmer House bar. I had a sweet pear brandy and took pictures galore.

The next day, an overpriced breakfast in bed and then off to the conference. WOW. There are A LOT of people here from all over the world! I've heard Spanish and English in a variety of accents, some Eastern languages I unfortunately have not been schooled in, and definitely some European ones I can grasp a little of. Vincent and I went to a panel called, "Revising Modernisms: Innovative Latino Writing in the 21st Century," which featured J. Michael Martinez, Antonio Viego, John-Michael Rivera, Gabriel Gomez, and Jennifer Reimer. The last speaker had some interesting things to say about his experience at UCLA, I believe. Something about only being given one Latino author to read in his four years, even though the population of the state and school is majority Latino. However, the panel itself was...dry. I was also disappointed when one female poet rearranged a T.S. Eliot quote and said that for her poetry is the negation of identity. Her statement was meant to reveal how poetry is "fake" or a distortion of what is real. She went on to say that she does not want to write from a racialized identity because it is problematic and she inevitably feels forced to represent. While I understand the need to not be pigeonholed, I personally find it impossible to write from a place completely devoid of racial bias or influence.

The panel titled, "Hip Hop and the Future of the Black Writer," was more of what I was looking for. It featured Jessica Young, Avery R. Young, Toni Assante Lightfoot, Tacuma Roeback, Alexis Pride, and Cynthium Johnson-Woodfolk. We were only able to catch the tail end of this panel, but boy were we happy we did. The energy in the too small space for all the people who wanted to be there was dynamic! Instead of just reading from papers, the writers were speaking from the heart and also taking questions from the chair of the panel and the audience. This was an interactive panel. Some statements that stood out to me included but were by no means limited to: "People who criticize current commercial hip hop and say that it is bad are people who are criticizing America because the medium very accurately reflects what America values and what we are giving power to. If you don't like what you see, then you need to change it. If you don't like it, get up and dance."; someone quoted Nas, referring to the Black community - "We are the slave and the master" - in terms of the oppressed but also the ones who create the culture that the master ends up using; for better or worse, hip hop has created a new space for the independent Black businessperson and Sean Combs was brought up, particularly for how he had the original Declaration of Independence at one of his Long Island parties and how he stayed home to watch the Inauguration with his son so that his son could see something he did not ever have the chance to see as a young Black child; and finally, education and our failure to make it successful for the past 15 or so years was brought up, especially in terms of not being good communicators and readers of what our children are bringing to the table (because we just bluntly correct them instead of trying to understand what they are trying to communicate and helping them with their communication).

Vincent and I loved the hip hop panel and, over lunch at George Mitchell's Artists Cafe, lamented that the same vibe was not found in the Latino panel we attended. It turns out not all the Latino panels were as stuffy, so maybe we just hit a crowd that hadn't had enough sleep.

After lunch, we wanted to take advantage of Chicago style. We took the Blue Line up to Damen and I showed Vincent all the spots on the buildings as we came up out of the tunnel that were painted over by Daley in the early 1990s because the city decided the gorgeous graffiti murals were bad. Bucktown is crazy gentrified. It is complete. The basement loft where Billy Wimsatt (Upski) and Alex (of Stoney Island fame) used to live is now a jewelry shop. The I.D. Under house I think got leveled. Still, we had a good time. I got a $29 dress at Akira, the new (to me) fashion empire, apparently. And Vincent had an excellent time digging the stacks at Reckless Records.
We took the train back to our home base and by now it was time for dinner. Since we are doing conference stuff and seeing friends the rest of the time, we decided to have a Valentine's Day date early. Pops for Champagne and a jazz show in its basement club was what we decided on. I'd heard Rose Colella on her myspace page and fell in love with her sweet voice, so it was perfectly romantic. We stayed for her early set and part of her second set, and held hands while dipping into fondue. But we wanted more writing. Poetry, specifically.

So, we ran back to the Chicago Hilton and Towers and caught the last hour of the poetry slam, which featured a lot of young dudes. Not a lot of ladies, but alas, all the judges were male, too. Still, it was nice to hear the young voices. And, what's really cool is that tomorrow's slam is a flash fiction slam, which I've never heard of, so it looks like the form is branching, which is great.

After walking around the rooms of the stunning Towers, we decided to walk back to the Palmer House, taking in the desolate city streets at night. Across the way, sculptors are creating ice art for a blues festival, it appears. Not exactly sure what it's all about, but it looks like the final product is going to be amazing. The moon was 3/4 full. And the doormen were hosing off the streets. It was a nice walk.

Tomorrow, the goal is to actually be able to set up our book table, which will offer free copies of the Sagebrush Review (not the issue I've edited, but good previous ones). Holla!

Obama Inauguration, Freakie-Stylie-Like, Pt. 2

2009-01-24T11:27:00.005-06:00

1/20/09, DAY THREE:

We knew we had to get up early, but we had also agreed that we wouldn't be getting up at 5 or 6 a.m. like the folks who were planning on standing in the cold all day. No, we figured we'd get to our all-day Obama party at 9:30 a.m., in time for the brunch that came with it. It was not easy for your narrator to get up at 7:30 a.m. Or to move quickly enough for her counterpart. I drank three glasses of water - which I should have drunk before going to bed - and managed to get myself together. Like trooper trained by New York City daytime-to-nighttime-can't-stop-at-home-and-change-16-hour-days/nights, I figured out the proper clothing that would keep me warm during the day and allow me to be stylin' at night. Black strapless dress w/hoodie on top, thick black tights, knee-high boots. The only thing missing was the right necklace....

Our host, Joe, offered to drive us in to wherever we were going because the news announced Metro delays. Apparently, by 7 a.m., the Mall was already full and hordes of people were backing everything up by trying to get in. Joe drove us back to U Street. We had started at U Street and kept going back. We fell in love with this area. The historic neighborhood, known for being the stomping ground of Duke Ellington and other jazz greats, was where we planned on spending most of our Inauguration Day. We bought advance tickets to an Inaugural party produced by Brightest Young Things, a party network in D.C. that gets both large and indie bands and artists together for mayhem. The mayhem would come later that night. Now, we just wanted to see President Obama and have a good breakfast.

We got to Bohemian Caverns, the site for the BYT Inaugural, and found things to be running a little late. I guess they should have had a little water before bed, too. No stress. I grabbed a seat and watched, along with the other early attendees, the events leading up to President Obama, while Vincent sprinted to the nearest drugstore to buy lots of newspapers commemorating the greatest event in my lifetime. The restaurant area of the joint, where we were watching on mega-screen and listening on super-mega-speakers (ouch!), was filling up fast. Still no brunch. After some more waiting, some more annoying Katie Couric nonsense (did she really say "visual image?"), and strange dealings with people who didn't know how to charge for brunch, I finally got my plate. Wait, who's that in line?? Someone from San Antonio? In the same place for the same purpose as me? Didn't think I'd see a fellow Gemini Ink writer out here, but that was crazy cool and made me that much more excited for the Inauguration. We said our hellos and then settled down to hear Katie Couric stifle it and let the main event happen.

The place was packed and everyone hushed as Diane Feinstein made her opening speech. We tolerated Rick Warren's prayer until his saucy pronunciation of "Sasha" - that made everyone bust out laughing. Aretha's hat brought on giggles, too. I LOVED it. Go, Aretha! We cheered when Biden was sworn in, mainly because we were getting closer. Vincent mused that we would have, for a few minutes, a President Bush and V.P. Biden. I dug the multicultural quartet of Perlman, Yo-Yo Ma, Montero and McGill. Everyone cheered loudly when Couric announced that, technically, Bush's term had expired at noon. Probably the best thing she said all morning/afternoon.

Finally, Obama was being sworn in! Here it was! Actually, happening! We all stood up in our little U Street space, just like the VIPs on TV. We laughed nervously when Obama tripped over the first words he had to repeat. He's human, after all. But he got through it, and we CHEERED! Couples were hugging each other. Tears of joy were flowing. Mimosas were tinkled together. We were cheering for a good five minutes, it seemed, only stopping when it was clear that he was starting his speech.

And then we listened.

And it was beautiful.

The way I see it, Obama welcomed both religious persons and atheists. He, in a diplomatic way, apologized to the nations we've taken advantage of in the past. He condemned greed and praised being a grateful community leader. He spoke eloquently and reminded us all that we do have grace and beauty in our United States; we just haven't valued it and promoted it in the ways that we should have. We were all so happy and so moved. We listened to every word, memorizing our favorite parts. Now how long has it been since we've listened to a U.S. president in that way? This was the first time in my lifetime. Heck, even Vincent, a New York cynic, was moved to man-tears (those are tears that well up but don't actually fall).

After Obama finished his speech, we all stood up again and cheered again! Of course, time to celebrate, but now I must bring in the pet peeve.

Very few folks in my vicinity listened to the poet Elizabeth Alexander. I've heard mixed reviews and, I suppose, she is no Maya Angelou, but she certainly is no Robert Frost (not to say Frost doesn't have his merits, but....). Regardless of what you thought of her words, I do think it is important that we give poets a little more respect in the U.S. I liked Alexander's words, even though in the poetry circles they might seem old news. It was important that she draw a picture that allows us to see all of our different faces, our different faces in terms of work and culture. How often do we remember that this is what the U.S. is? This is important to me because I still find students who do not understand the importance of acknowledging the experiences of U.S. people of different backgrounds or of the people who live near us in other countries.

Rev. Dr. Joseph E. Lowery brought back the flavor that everyone seemed to want. He was great! Charming, clear, deep and with flair! I'ma hafta get me a copy of that prayer.

Vincent and I were glowing and didn't exactly know what to do with ourselves after the event was over, but we knew we weren't staying at Bohemian Caverns. We wanted to walk around D.C. before the concert and party that was part of our Inaugural package. We already had our silvery glitter bracelets that would allow us re-entry, so we took to the streets. An Internet cafe and a great necklace to go with my strapless dress were my objectives. Vinny wanted good music.

Can you believe that we didn't find one Internet cafe or one music store? Everything is "free wi-fi," of course, and we are guessing that music is just downloaded in D.C.? However, I did find a great art and jewlery shop. Dekka is in a walk-up and it occupies two floors. The speech had just ended and the cool Argentinian woman attending the store had already managed to mix the speech with some techno/house music which was pumping throughout the store. The walls were filled with very reasonably priced graffiti art and pop art; they have a very cool collection of vinyl records with Obama's image on them in contrasting bright colors. I would've bought one, but how to transport it back to San Antone in one piece? I concentrated on the one-of-a-kind jewelry and found a black and amber Cleopatra-like necklace that was just the right vibe. I spoke with the attendant in Spanish and we bonded on Obama and his image outside of the United States, which is VERY different than that of his predecessor. Vincent liked some of the music for sale, but wanted a larger selection; they just have choice tracks there and they are probably a little overpriced. Still, it was the only place we found music for sale. We said "Ciao!" to Dekka and the friendly owner, and moved on.

Moving on meant more walking, because we wanted to see every bit of everything. The architecture in D.C. is gorgeous and the people were all in good spirits, so the cold wasn't a big deal for us. We walked from U Street to Georgetown and decided to dig in some bookstores, which had to be good because they were close to the university. Well, they were. We went to Bridge Street Books and it had one of the largest poetry sections I'd ever seen in a book store. Usually, poetry gets a shelf. Bridge Street gives poetry several floor to ceiling shelves that take up a wall. It's clear that some of the books are for students, as they are labeled for specific classes, but a lot of the stuff would be appealing to all. They have great sections on Latin America, Africa, Asia, the Middle East, and have the standards for anyone interested in cultural studies or political science. We love Bridge Street Books. I bought Sonia Sanchez's Homegirls and Handgrenades. There were so many things I could've bought for my dissertation and this seemed the most reasonable. We were digging for at least an hour.

After this, we wandered, peeking into windows and then decided to head back to U for dinner. There was an organic Italian restaurant that stood out to me. We'd eat, then head back to Bohemian Caverns for the concert/party. This was a long walk. A very long walk. But it was a very cool walk, too. At one point we found ourselves on New Hampshire Avenue and this street has embassies, fancy fraternity houses, and beautiful mansions where, apparently, many parties were being held. We tried not to stare as men in tuxes and women in long gowns and coats walked by. Interestingly, even the $3,000 ball people were in good spirits because they looked at us and smiled and threw a "good evening" out, here and there. It was a very interesting walk and I was surprised to see how close all of this was to U Street.

Vincent's hip was hurting and my leg was getting a little sore by the time we found the organic Italian. The restaurant's name is Coppi's and we did not know what we were in store for. Vincent and I shared the tortelline di castagne, which was plenty, and it had flavors that I didn't know existed or that could be combined in that fashion. Savory lamb sausage and sticky carmelized dates - mmmmmm! The warm, cozy restaurant was made that much cozier by the sweet waitstaff. Big fans of Coppi's.

It was around 9 or 10 p.m. when we got to the Brightest Young Things party, I think. They handed out Obama cupcakes and had four floors of young fun. The top floor had the coat check, VIP area and a photographer. The floor below that had the rowdier bands and DJs. The floor below that was the restaurant where we had watched the Inauguration in the morning/afternoon; there they played good music and still had the TV on. The cavern, the basement floor, is a work of art that reminds me of where Vincent and I got married. Everything is plaster art, with faces coming out of the walls and seating within little caves and such. There, the mellower bands played. We got to hear Love Language, Mixtape DJs, The Art of Junk and Team Facelift. We loved Love Language, Mixtape DJs and The Art of Junk. We even, at the invitation of the band, got on-stage and got funky with Art of Junk! Well, they asked just about everybody to get on-stage, so it wasn't that big a deal, really. :) Team Facelift, even though they were representing Brooklyn, got on our nerves. Uncreative frat boy music, methinks. I mostly enjoyed seeing all the clothing that was transformed into Obama gear. They were selling trendy Obama dresses with his image spray painted on them, but I was watching the budget.

Not sure if it was 2 or 3 a.m. when we decided we'd had enough. We'd walked all day and I danced for a good hour or so in da club, so we wanted to get some rest. We easily caught a cab to Joe's, took one last look at each other and smiled at our luck. Who would've thought that two artists like us would have been there? I had the best sleep. Obama's in the Black and White House sleep.

1/21/09, DAY FOUR:

I had homework to do. We got up late and had breakfast at noon at a chain place in the business district. Vincent and I were cranky that it was almost over. After breakfast, I went to the library because it was the only place I could find Internet access. I waited for a hour to be able to do my work for an hour on a limited-usage computer. I managed to get my response to Calvino (2 pages), my freewriting (a page) and my "in-class" writing assignment (don't remember the number of pages) all done with two minutes to spare. If you recall the last blog, my task was to write a sixth memo for the next millennium. The memos that Calvino wrote addressed what writers should do in their work, the qualities the best writing has. Calvino wrote of quickness, lightness, visibility and others. Vincent and Eric offered relevance and necessity. I liked their options, but I didn't like the words. I opted for a phrase, a phrase that President Obama has used in several speeches: Make it plain. I referred to the Gil Scott-Heron monologue where he states, after seeing some sort of fancy, elusive art, "Must be deep." I think that we've forgotten, in the search of being deep, that writing, and other art forms, should also "make it plain." I also wanted to use a phrase that is Black. An African American phrase, to be specific. In this way, I tied together my experience in D.C., my love of African American culture, and my love of writing. I had fun doing this assignment.

Vincent, in the meantime, found a place to purchase music: the library! They have great CDs for a dollar or less. He bought Herbie Hancock and something else, I forget. I was glad he got his fix in. :)

The Portrait Gallery and its connecting museums were just a few blocks away, so we decided to spend the rest of the day looking at portraits of supposedly important White people. It was the only museum that made me angry. Why are all the portraits so glum? Does importance mean depression? Laura Bush's was the only one with a smile and I can't stand her phony grin. Oh, well. Fortunately, it is connected to the American Art Museum and Reynolds Center, which was the only place I actually saw a significant amount of Latino work represented. Now, I only saw a miniscule fraction of D.C., so this isn't saying much. Still, I hope that in the future, I will be able to easily find more of the Latino side of the city. I've heard there is a significant Cuban population in D.C. and I'd like to see how the Afro-Latino pop. is represented. Nonetheless, we love the Reynold's Center, with its neon exhibits and flickering monitor walls.

Can you believe the trip hasn't ended?? It was so jam-packed, it's hard to get it all down. Okay, we took a breather in Chinatown, which was around the corner from the museums, and there we met a friendly restaurant bartender who told us that he pretty much slept in the restaurant for the past week and didn't eat much between serving patrons. We thanked him and all of D.C. for doing such a good job. After some hot sake, we braved the cold again and walked through the Howard University area to get back to U.

Ethiopian food was the goal, because one of my profs said it is excellent in D.C., but those restaurants were too full. Instead, we went to Indulj, where we had Southern-style tapas. That's right. And to our delight, a live jazz band, Pete Muldoon and friends, was playing. This was unexpected and a perfect final act. I was having so much fun, I bought my dad an Obama tie from one of the patrons. I'm not sure if he liked it.

We headed back to Joe's to sleep for a few hours before a 6 a.m. flight - ugh! I don't remember much about the flight except that U.S. Airways charges $2 for any sort of drink and the attendants are rude. One last airport image does stay with me, though: McCain items on clearance.

Amen.

(If you want to see the BYT pictures they have on their site, click here. Not for the faint of heart.)

Obama Inauguration, Freakie-Stylie-Like, Pt. 1

2009-01-22T14:35:00.004-06:00

1/18/09, DAY ONE:

Vincent and I, wearing our warmest gear, excitedly took Frontier Airlines to Denver, Colorado, and then quickly switched planes to head for Washington, D.C. First of all, Frontier Airlines still offers free drinks and your first piece of checked luggage is free, although we didn't check anything. Frontier rocks. They were on-time and efficient, which allowed everyone on the plane to revel in the great mood we all shared. I did most of my assigned reading for class on the plane (Six Memos for the Next Millennium), but the electric energy made it hard to concentrate.

One of the airline attendants started some call and response with us, asking, "Where you headed?"

"D.C.!" we shouted.

"To see who?"

"Obama!" we shouted back. We all applauded and cheered when the plane landed (although, that's nothing new for Puerto Ricans and Dominicans, but I digress). Even though it was 10 p.m. when we arrived, we were all amped.

A quick Metro ride got Vincent and me to the Petworth neighborhood, where our humble host, Joseph, picked us up and drove us to his home. Yes, we were two of the thousands who were staying in a "stranger's" home. Joseph was really nice, but being the paranoid Latina that I am, I couldn't sleep the first night. Not only was I worried that I might be ax murdered and I hadn't showered, but I was also anticipating seeing old friends, checking out the city, and singing, "Ding, Dong, the wicked bitch is dead," at noon two days later. I let my imagination go to ridiculous extremes until about 3 a.m., when I finally got some needed rest.

1/19/09, DAY TWO:

Vincent was starving by the time we got up. I got ready in record time, but that didn't make things easier when we got to our desired U Street neighborhood. Damn, was everything packed! I didn't care, but Vincent was ravenous. I made jokes and looked at all the beautiful D.C. people. All the ladies had their hair done, men were wearing furs, we saw preppy men in bow ties and lots of beautiful textured hair in locks and thick curls the colors of honey and paprika. I saw one blonde tourist in heels without hosiery and wondered how long that would work for her in 20 degree weather, but she looked like Blair on the 1st season of The Facts of Life, so I guess that made up for it. Everyone was stylin' to the point of camp and I loved it!

We decided to wait in line at Creme, on U Street, one of the only places that was open and serving breakfast. We waited about half an hour, but it was totally worth it. I had the Chesapeake (eggs benedict with mouth-watering crab) and Vincent had the hearty chicken and waffles. We made friends with the couple next to us - it was crowded, okay - and they offered us good advice on where to go and how to get around.

Next, I called Papi - it was his birthday on MLK Day, so I had to send some love. I left a message for Onome, and called Eric and Richard, old Kenwood acquaintances. The guys had just woken up and said they'd call back when they were ready to hang.

Vincent and I decided to head toward where the action would be taking place the next day: the Mall. We took lewd pictures of the Washington Monument, which isn't the most original thing to do, but we couldn't resist. Afterward, we wandered into the sculpture garden and found that Joan Miro had answered the Washington Monument's presence with a sculpture of his own. I'll just say that it is a more feminine version of what the Monument represents.

Our ultimate goal was the African Art Museum, which was excellent. Now, there's something you need to know about the Smithsonian Museums - they are crazy. You will get lost. You will be underground and then all of a sudden find yourself in another museum. But it will be a great museum! After looking at ancient art from the Congo, Senegal, Sierra Leone, Egypt, Madagascar, Kenya, Malawi, and Ethiopia, among others, we wandered into a few modern African American exhibits, one of which featured the work of our friend Leslie Hewitt! We were so surprised to see her there, and totally delighted! Goooo, Leslie!

The last treat was wandering into the exhibit titled, After 1968: Contemporary Artists and the Civil Rights Legacy. This photography exhibit compiles historical images of marches, riots, violence and unity within the civil rights movement in the United States. In addition to the historical photos, we also see an experimental look at African Americans in advertising, sans the logos, which creates a haunting effect and starkly shows how color is displayed for profit.

After seeing wall after wall of these images, which came right after sculptures of kings and queens in Africa, and the sweet, generational work of our friend, I felt very privileged to be in Washington, D.C. during this unique time. More importantly, I felt honored to be sharing this experience with so many beautiful people of all ages: children just born, abuelitas, men and women, young students. What an education for me! How blessed am I!

I emerged from the humid underground vaults of knowledge overwhelmed with information and ideas, and anxious to see what would come next.

After reaching daylight, Vincent and I checked the phone and realized that we missed a call or two. We got in contact with Eric and agreed to meet at the Lincoln Memorial, which I had never seen. When we tried to get close, we realized that just wasn't going to happen. It was as crowded as everywhere else. School groups, church choirs, Bears fans (Chicago in da house!) and all sorts of folks were excitedly running around. We took distant pictures and through a series of calls and texts, found Eric and Richard by the Port-A-Potties. Ah, how poetic!

I cannot describe how strange it is to see someone after so many years. You have an almost indelible image of the person as a child, and here he/she is, with grey hair, or with a mature physique that no longer implies, "I haven't gone through puberty yet!" What differences do they see in me, I'm still left wondering.

We all introduced/reintroduced ourselves and agreed to find food and drink, not necessarily in that order. It was somewhere around dusk and the light was quickly fading, which meant it was getting colder. However, Richard, who works for the Environmental Protection Agency, was our reluctant guide because he has only been in D.C. for a year, not much less than Vincent and I have been in San Antonio. We ended up using Eric's iPhone and Richard's instincts to get to Georgetown. It was a long walk, but Vincent and I really enjoyed it. I am NOT joking about this. San Antonio is not a walking city and we desperately wish it were.

We ate at a pub and the wine was amazing. My steak was too big and Eric ended up taking the portion I didn't eat, even though he'd already eaten a rack of ribs. I think all our walking made up for this. Dinner conversation was fine, but what I remember most is that we all have significant others who are younger than us. My cougar tendencies are mild. Vincent is only four years younger. Eric's wife is five years younger. Richard beats us all, even if we combine the years, okay? What's up with Kenwood people? Is there Viagra in Harold's Chicken or what?

Drinks kept pouring at Mie N Yu, a swanky club/restaurant, where lots of tourists were drunk and bragging about Oprah staying at their hotel or Larry King or some other VIP. A couple of 40-something blondies were interviewed by a local station and nearly fell on the floor, girls-gone-wild-style. This was one of my favorite parts of the evening.

And then I realized, the Inauguration is just a big, freaky party for nerds. Obama has made it a little more glamorous than usual, but boy were these rich people partying. Not a lot of his modest vision was happening on 1/19. Everyone would need some sobering up the next day, I thought. But not at the time. At the time, I had one of the sweetest brandies in my life. Vincent and Richard followed my liquid lead, and this led to talks about the paper I had to write - would my sixth memo for the new millennium (which is supposed to address a virtue that all writing should have) be an attempt at consistency (which author Calvino neglected to write), or necessity (Vincent's word), or relevance (Eric's word). I didn't have to decide over brandy, or over the perfect three olive martini that was coming next.

By the second olive, the guys were exchanging lewd jokes. I must say that one of my mami's jokes, about Bush being given an indigenous name by a tribe, made it into the mix, which I thought would please her. All of a sudden, we noticed the bar was emptying and this brought home why we were there. We had to get up early the next day! Or, later, actually!

We quickly said our good-byes and grabbed cabs. Time to rest and get ready for the moment that I never thought I'd ever see. Why was I so lucky? And why was I so thirsty for water??

DAYS THREE AND FOUR, COMING NEXT!

(For pictures of my trip, befriend me on Facebook.)

Movie Ratings Signify Torture Years

2008-09-14T12:29:00.002-05:00

In September of 2001, I moved in to what my father jokingly called an artists' commune. My husband and I, along with four other musician, artist and filmmaking friends, piled all our belongings into a cool two-flat in Jersey City, hoping that the (ad)venture would lessen the blow of rising rents. The apartment was spacious but not exactly spacious enough to hold the larger-than-life personalities that were housed in it. Still, things seemed to be going well at first. We had regular band rehearsals in the basement, one of the roommates was attempting to make his first film, and I was starting a new job at Hudson County Community College, a school in the heart of the very diverse Journal Square.

We were all surprised one September morning when a cloud of mischief began to blow over the Hudson toward us. One roommate was preparing to take the PATH train to the World Trade Center in order to get to his job as a server in a restaurant on Manhattan's Upper West Side. Vincent was going to take the same train to start his work with DreamYard, an artists-in-the-schools organization. I was already teaching my morning ESL class. My supervisor came in to tell me that a plane had flown into one of the WTC towers. We continued class, confused. Five minutes later she came in to say a second tower had been hit, the first was collapsing and that we should dismiss class. As I was hearing those words, Vincent and several other roommates had just witnessed the first tower collapse. Our filmmaker roommate got footage of the first tower going down. I walked outside and I saw the second tower collapse and the smoke billowed toward Jersey City. We would breathe the toxic fumes for months afterwards. Everyone was out in the streets attempting to use cell phones in vain. I ran home, hoping to find Vincent there. We hugged when we saw each other and watched conflicting newscasts for most of the rest of the day. One roommate looked shocked when I said, "We did this."

No one could get along after that day. When Vincent returned from a residency with Saul Williams in Florida (which he had to drive to because of flights being blocked), all communication had broken down in the apartment. We separated the flats and a year later, when the lease ran out, we moved a few blocks closer to the PATH to an apartment which came to be known as the Chateau Boogie. It was a great apartment and a lot of creativity happened there. For our housewarming, which was also a celebration of my birthday, we had friends create a mural on our kitchen wall and we regularly played and recorded music in a room we called the Loop Hole (because we usually used loops of recorded music). One of the creative endeavors I embarked on was making a list of movie rating descriptions.

I was once a film major at Columbia College Chicago, and now Vincent shared in my joy of viewing and dissecting all aspects of film. We watched a lot of movies and I decided I wanted to list all the different things the movie ratings people thought we should be warned of (this desire to understand ratings was echoed years later in "This Film is Not Yet Rated"). I listed these descriptions as they came to be known. So, for example, if "sensuality" was seen as a description, it was written down and never written down again. I only listed descriptions that were new to me. I did this from the year 2002 to the present; roughly, the years of the Bush administration. Vincent kept asking me why I was doing this and I said I didn't know yet, but it was very entertaining. The phrases are so ridiculous and some of them have no meaning at all, I wonder what exactly I'm being warned of. However, a meaning did become clear to me about a month ago. I was reviewing the list and I noticed a change.

When I began making the list, just about a year after the 9/11 farce, the descriptions were pretty predictable. There were things like "brief language" (God forbid we should have language in a talkie film!) and "drug use." However, as we got further into the the Bush Years and the Iraq War, really disturbing descriptions began to crop up. Remember, I only recorded descriptions as they became known to me. That means, I didn't repeat descriptions I'd already seen; I only recorded new ones as I saw them. Now, one could argue that I went through a horror film phase or that films during this time were bringing up topics that were relevant to public discourse. I've always chosen a nice variety of films: foreign ones, documentaries, funny ones and stand up, action/fantasy, animation, and even really horrible "chick flicks" (because they make me laugh). I actually don't rent a lot of horror films unless they are bad ones from the 1970s, so my discovery is not necessarily skewed in that way. I should also mention that a lot of these descriptions are for films I didn't even see; the descriptions were gathered from preview ratings. In terms of Hollywood bringing in public discourse into its films, that may be the case, but I'd like you to notice exactly how they decided to bring in public discourse.

Hollywood, during the Bush Years, has pummelled us with torture in every kind of film imaginable. Is this because we've been trying to discuss the issue of torture in Iraq? Perhaps, but the way the torture has been presented in films has absolutely nothing to do with having an informed discussion about whether Bush has allowed waterboarding. Torture has been introduced just for its own sake. A family goes camping and gets tortured. Travelers go to Europe and get tortured. A man gets tortured by a woman with a feminist agenda. Films involving such themes have always existed, but during the Bush Years, torture became an everyday occurrence and my list shows how movie rating descriptions signify the inclusion of torture in everyday films. The list follows. It is in chronological order.

We must warn you of:

thematic material
sensuality
language
some material
some scary images
action
brief mild language
drug material
some sexuality
violence
graphic sexuality
strong brutal violence
some drug use
sexual content
brief language
mild thematic elements
sexuality
strong sexual content
some language
brief violence
depiction of strong thematic material
pervasive language
strong violence
drug use
nudity
some violent images
brief strong language
some sexual content
adult situations involving sexuality
some substance material
some violence including domestic abuse
some mild crude humor
strong sexuality
some violence
strong language
thematic elements including suggestive material
mild language
intense creature violence
rude humor
disturbing images
sex
racial issues including violence and epithets
mature thematic material
intense sequences of violent action
intense horror
suggestive humor
crude and sexual humor
sequences of violent action throughout
partial nudity
intense sequences of violence
bloody horror violence and gore
aberrant behavior involving nudity
some strong killings
drug material
brief sexual images
sequences of terror and violence
some sensuality
graphic battle sequences throughout
sexual references
some suggestive references
intense sequences of sci-fi action violence
brief sexual humor
smoking
some rude humor
references to D.H. Lawrence
horror violence and gore
strong, brutal and bloody violence
some graphic sexuality
violent and sexual images
grisly violence including torture and disturbing gory images
sci-fi violence
violent and disturbing content
an accident scene
momentary strong language
sexual material
strong sadistic violence and gore
some drinking and smoking all involving teens
reckless behavior
nude images
strong thematic material including the sexual assault of a child

Starting from about "intense creature violence," the list takes on an incredibly disturbing turn. Even though I was renting the same kinds of films I always rented, the new descriptions I was exposed to signified a strange turn in the types of films that were being made. The words "violence" and "intense" are used more than any other words. And I remember feeling it at the time. Whenever Vincent and I read the description of a film in the past three years or so, we would scan to see if it was a "torture" film. We learned to steer away from them because they just weren't fun for us. However, this was difficult for us to do because the torture wasn't just in films like the "Saw" series. It seemed to permeate everything.

Our unfortunate conclusion as to why this has happened reminds me of a question that Vincent asked me when we were riding on the A train in Manhattan years ago. After looking at the Bud Light ads that were plastered all over the interior of the train car, Vincent asked, "Doesn't everybody know about Bud already? Why in the world do we even need Bud ads anymore? Don't we all know about it?" I answered, "Yes, but five year olds don't know about it yet." He wondered for a minute why a five year old needs to know about beer but quickly figured out that she'll remember the name when she reaches an older age. It becomes something within us, inseparable from our psyche. Even those of us who don't like Bud know exactly what it is. So why are we being bombarded with torture films? The same reason history is presented as a series of wars: so that it seems like something absolutely normal, something that has always existed and will always exist.

Even though films can be entertaining, they are not just entertainment. If there is a somewhat large budget behind them (not necessarily meaning big stars; if the shots and editing are done nicely, that means money), films are promoting a point of view that the often unidentified producers hope the viewers will unwittingly take on. Will the generation brought up on these torture films think that torture is okay? I have no idea, but people outside of the United States have been commenting on the amount of violence in our films for decades. Now that this violence has taken on a torturous turn, I'm not sure what the outcome will be. I don't like to see anyone suffering, not even in a film. I recently read an article in The New York Times Magazine about young people who purposefully go on blogs and MySpace accounts in order to harrass people, just to see if they get a rise out of them. One such incident ended up in the suicide of a young girl. Is our empathy at stake? I've heard statements from young people to the effect of, "Well, if they're too stupid to figure things out, they deserve to be messed with. I'll screw with someone just because I can."

I'm not blaming the end of the world on young people. That's silly. But I think it is ridiculous for Oprah to have a show on bullies and to question the kids and parents, for example, when we as a country promote bullying. I think it's silly to expect the majority of young people to have worthwhile relationships when our leaders are caught in bathroom stalls and our television soap operas show men and women sleeping with everything but the family dog. Therefore, we cannot expect young people (or anyone else, for that matter) to have empathy if we bombard them with films that continually expect them to be un-empathetic in order to watch them.

I hope the torture years are over. And I hope this doesn't mean that I can expect a ton of censored, sappy drivel. If the audacity to hope means more of the same in just a different, smiling package, keep the torture. At least that allows me to see exactly where our minds are at.

The Sounds of Manipulation (Let the Bodies Hit the Floor)

2008-07-24T10:37:00.008-05:00

Rayguns being used to control the masses, hidden radio frequency towers and a couple who constantly hears a strange noise that cannot be placed. Are these plot points in a new sci-fi novel? What is all this noise stuff about? These are not the sounds of music but the sounds of manipulation.

My last post was about the positive effects of musicians who strive for excellence and put on a good show. This post is about the exact opposite: how sounds can also be used to influence people in an entirely different manner. Now don't think that I'm about to get all Tipper on you and say that Ozzy or Jello Biafra must be censored. C'mon now, you know me better than that. Let me go through a seemingly unrelated series of discoveries so that maybe you can bounce up to my idea bubble.

1. Years ago, our friend Charles mentioned to Vincent and me that sounds were being used to manipulate people. Charles is an amazing musician, DJ, artist, and is light years ahead of many of us in the thinking department, so I trusted what he said, although I wasn't sure what he meant. I figured, okay, I can see that some music causes people to act one way, other music has a different effect, and people have probably studied that and made certain choices based on that. After all, we have certain kinds of music being played when we go shopping in certain places, when I was kickboxing the trainers played a certain kind of music to get us pumped (and it worked). This, and his own general brilliance, influenced Vincent to write a poem about how different sounds have different effects on us. But this idea was pretty much left at that. Until...

2. ...we moved to San Antonio. As I've mentioned before, San Antonio is a military town and, in my opinion, decisions are made in order to keep people in a military frame of mind. The main thing that I've noticed is that if you look at our free radio stations, we only have one jazz station and it was only started about two or three years ago, if I heard the DJ correctly. There are a ton of hard rock, classic rock, and metal stations. Now, I like this music and I don't think that in and of itself, it causes people to be violent, okay? That is not what I am writing here. However, because this music is played repeatedly and the actual selection of songs is limited, it does tend to limit ideas. When Vincent and I initially had people over to our place or drove new friends around, they had no idea what we were playing on our stereo or car MP3. They literally had less access to ideas. Furthermore, the kinds of repeated songs are of the "Let the Bodies Hit the Floor" nature. I used to really like that song, until I heard it for the 500th time in less than a few months. I mean, it's old and they still play it out here. But finally, what we must consider is that there is no alternative, literally. It's either pop hits, country/Tejano, or the rock I write of. There is an "alternative program" on one of the low end stations, and I never know exactly when it is going to be there or how long it is going to last, although the schedule posted claims to have a lot more than the bluegrass music I usually hear. Now, the importance of this hit home while watching "Stop-Loss" last night. One of the prominently featured songs was, you guessed it, "Let the Bodies Hit the Floor." Who would've thought that music that was supposed to be counterculture would actually become useful to the military? I've heard that they even use Rage Against the Machine music when torturing, er, um, questioning detainees of the military (note the posts at the link).

3. The Blue Boogie, our loft, needed to detain some of its own prisoners when we first moved in. We had a bug problem. Nothing serious or gross, just annoying. We had a ton of little fruit flies that would get drunk on our dollar. Not kidding. We'd leave a wine glass to go get something across the room and little flies would be swimming around in the glass seconds later. I thought it was funny but this was not where I was going to live. A loft is cool, but I got standards. Bombing the place didn't work and we didn't like the idea of harsh chemicals possibly affecting us or our kitties, so we bought these little Black and Decker items that scare away bugs and rodents by emitting sounds at a frequency that disorients the little buggers. It worked! Occasionally, we get a resurgence but once they hang about and hear the noise, they all die and/or leave. I casually asked Vincent one day if these little wall units could have an affect on us, or if there were different items somewhere that had a freaky frequency just for humans. We knew the answer to that one.

4. Activate, a good little email newsletter, sent me a link to this article. Basically, a company has made a device that can beam microwave sounds into our heads. The article speculates how it will be used. Military functions are primary, but they are not opting out of possible uses for advertisers. Some experts complain about fried brains, but hey, we're already doing that.

5. Vincent and I have always been against the idea of government-tracking devices (cell phones) but due to the horrendous looks we get when we travel and have to borrow a line, I ended up buying one that I just use when on trips. However, even if you don't own one, you may be exposed to towers that connect these devices and what effect these towers have on your brain remains to be seen. Charles sent me this link on the hidden towers (The news report begins at 1:15; I also recommend looking at the video on GMOs hidden ingredient and TV, the drug of the nation). Now, when you look at the video on these towers, it is important to note that these radio frequency beams are often hidden in church towers. Yes, it brings in revenue for the church, but the place is what struck me when I read...

6. ...this article today. It goes to show you that even Yahoo! can have a decent article every now and then if you know what to look for. Leona and her husband cannot concentrate and even have trouble sleeping because of a weird noise. The noise started after their local church had some work done. No one seems to want to give them an answer as to where the noise is coming from.

So all this info., 1-6, spells something pretty obvious to me. Sound, that we may or may not be aware of, will soon be used or is already being used to influence us. Perhaps one day this will be more obvious to all or perhaps it will become wallpaper, background fuzz that isn't even heard anymore. Kind like how cell phones were once obvious, something to giggle at or be annoyed by but are now a part of the elaborately designed wallpaper, background, not even offensive at the dinner table. What will these frequencies be used for? What are they already being used for? How have they already influenced our actions? How do we counteract it if we don't even know exactly what to counteract? Do they just make us sleepy? Or do they keep us working? Or do they keep us apathetic or self-centered? Do they keep us from fighting or do they cause fights?

Any ideas? Or is that what these frequencies have already limited?

For the Love of Concerts: Peter Murphy, 80s Nostalgia and Shining

2008-07-15T09:26:00.005-05:00

I have a friend, through my husband, named Thaxton, who loves to go to concerts. He has to go to several concerts a month in order to feel sane and, given that he is an adult like Vincent and me, it can sometimes seem like a bit of a task. Thaxton does, after all, have a super amazing wife and three gorgeous kids. However, the family knows how important this is to him and agrees that it makes a happier hubby and daddy. I certainly understand Thaxton's need. In high school, concerts were a regular staple for me, although they were a constant struggle because I could never find the variety of friends to represent my musical tastes. I had a crew that I would go with to the hardcore punk concerts, I had a couple of friends I could take to lighter fare like U2 or the Cure, I could never find anyone to go to classic rock concerts and usually resorted to bribery for that, and if there was jazz in the park I usually went with my mom or a DJ friend. (I won't even get into the slew of people I had to rotate regarding house music clubs and stuff like that.)

All of that sort of died as I got older. It became just too difficult to find people who shared my diverse interests. Thaxton will go to a concert alone and while I've gone dancing alone, I haven't ventured into the concert arena without someone to share the joy with. I like dancing alone - there's more space. But I can't imagine loving a concert moment with no one but myself, although the idea is growing on me. Ultimately, through the college years, I went to less and less concerts. There'd be a Lollapalooza here, a Warped Tour there, maybe a jazz-dancy thing I could take a date to, but the punk and goth stuff was OVER.

Luckily, moving to New York City changed that. That is where I met my husband and I quickly learned that Vincent loved concerts, just like me, and he was quite impressed with my ticket stub collection, even though I assured him that it was only a fraction of what I had experienced, given that most of the concerts I went to I paid at the door, hence, no stub. Most impressive was my $3 Jane's Addiction bargain show at Chicago's Cabaret Metro, although it really was worth $3 or less because the band was loaded and sounded terrible, which made me wonder in 1987 what all the hype was about this new band. Vincent and I quickly began to share our love of concerts together. We saw amazing shows, including Living Color, Erykah Badu, Radiohead, G.Love and Special Sauce, Brooklyn Funk Essentials, Roni Size (feat. Zack de la Rocha!), Lovage, Mike Patton and Rahzel, a jazz tribute to Nina Simone (which included Tracy Chapman, Odetta, James "Blood" Ulmer, the late Oscar Brown, and Vernon Reid), Ministry (2X!) and Zero 7, just to name a few.

Our move to San Antonio seemed to promise more of this in a different setting. As soon as we got here, we got excited about the live music capital of the world, Austin. We had a rollicking night full of heavy rock (as noted in a previous blog about Southern Freaks) our first summer here. At the beginning of my first semester in school, the Austin City Limits Festival was on our agenda and we got to see the Raconteurs, Massive Attack, TV on the Radio, Aimee Mann and so many others. But then the real work started. We planned on going to South by Southwest several times, but it didn't happen. Often, we were just too tired to drive and get worked up for a concert. Truthfully, the Peter Murphy concert that just happened this past weekend in Austin, was not something I planned on simply for myself. We have a couple of friends who are around my age and like that sort of thing, so I thought, hey, this might be a good time to finally get together with Faye and Ted, I'm sure they like Peter Murphy. Well, Faye is five months pregnant (congratulations!) and needs her rest, okay? Something compelled me to buy the tickets anyway, although I didn't think much of it. Eh, some 80s nostalgia, right? Whatever.

Boy, was I wrong. I did my usual ritual, got dressed up, deep blue shadow, blood red lips, black dress, very goth, indeed. I looked good and I knew it. Gotta revel in those moments at my age. Vincent was exhausted from work all day and I felt like I was imposing this on him, but the tickets were bought. We took off to Austin and once we got to Emo's, we noticed the place was already packed. It was a sort of 80s nostalgia night with current "80s sounding" bands inside (Cute is What We Aim For, Danger Radio & others) and Peter Murphy w/Ali Eskandarian outside. All the kids, and I do mean kids, inside were dressed in day-glo and pomp a la "Pretty in Pink" and "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go." Outside, black, black, black. It was just like the damn split rooms in McGreevy's. I guess they needed to be nostalgic about music segregation, too. I guess that has never really left us. Still, in order to see what's current and to indulge in the air conditioning, we watched some of the inside bands, which sounded a lot like an updated Simple Minds. The audience sang along with corny, ironic lyrics layered on top of sweet melodies. I even bought a dress with the phrase "Cute is What We Aim For," but not because I liked the band; I thought the statement worked for me.

Later on outside, when Ali E. opened up, Vincent and I couldn't help being drawn in by the scrawny, Afroed, Middle Eastern gyrator. His words were abstract and his body was violating the mic stand. I thought that Peter Murphy, or his management, was pretty cool for having this guy open. My energy started to pick up. Instead of having the glued-to-every-Texan's-hand-usual-beer, we had Absolut Mandarin on the rocks and people-watched. There was the trash rock lady: a lumpy woman with disparate tattoos, hair pulled up in a scrapply way, messy eyeliner and leathery skin. I loved her. There was the can-kick-my-ass rock chick: a very, very big woman with stringy black hair, dark make-up and a mouth that doesn't move past a straight line unless a beer is in it. I loved her and even got goose bumps when she walked past me. There was the don't-really-want-to-know guy: A man in his 50s-60s wearing devices in his ears that Vincent said our friend Andrew uses to hold up tarps when we go camping. They were big and heavy! Reached his shoulders and he'd swing them around purposefully when he'd turn to this or that friend. He looked like he'd try just about anything, and I don't really want to know what that might mean. I loved him, but not that much. Then there was the 80s GQ guy: He still has the short on the sides and back, wavy and combed up and back hairdo. He probably really likes Depeche Mode, too. He probably thinks he's really hot and probably feels sad if his look isn't just right. I loved him, too, but not enough to give him my number. Not that kind of love, yo. And there was the out-there-artsy-druggy-interpretive-dance-weirdo: He had sort of blond, sort of black, sort of long in places, sort of short in places hair. He had on lace and leather and denim and probably some mesh, too. He had both pants and a skirt on. He was dancing with arms-a-flailing all night. He was a sweaty, eyelinered mess. I LOVED him. I so would've given him my number, if only so Vincent and I could pretend like we'd actually go to his house to see what is inside. Again, not that kind of love, yo. The love I'm talking about is love of people not giving a f***. I love it. I love them for it. I could also mention all the women, including myself, who have the standard diagonal forward bob, but that makes us seem like we're uncreative when what it really means is that we have few options now that we're in the workforce.

But onto Peter Murphy himself. My friend Jennifer, after the concert, asked if he was great or just old and sad. Old and sad are not words that describe one of the greatest songwriters I've ever had the pleasure of hearing. I saw Peter Murphy for the first time when I was 15 years old. I was with my friend Elaine and we were at the Cabaret Metro. It was during his "Should the World Fail to Fall Apart" tour. I remember him under that blue, smoke-filled light, singing "Confessions" and thinking he was amazing. But in my limited concert-going experience then, I thought all "famous" people were amazing in concert. He was so honored at that concert, that whenever he spoke, the audience hushed. And this was an audience of high school and college kids. This weekend, at Emo's, he was clearly given similar respect, although there was a section of people out from under the outdoor roof who talked throughout the entire concert. I was pretty surprised at that. The people under the roof, however, were pretty reverent and the acoustics were that he couldn't hear the noise just a few feet away. Peter Murphy is better today than he's ever been. He is such a skilled songwriter and his voice is really beyond belief. I don't know what he's done to protect it, but it is richer and more complex. During the concert, I found myself in a place that was not exactly 80s nostalgia anymore. This was a totally new and current experience. Peter Murphy was shining in an entirely new way for me. He played acoustic sets, dark tunes, upbeat melodies, a really varied and thoughtful program. I kept thinking of how professional this man is.

I recognized several tunes, such as "Cuts You Up," "She's in Parties," and Nine Inch Nail's "Hurt," but most of the songs were new. None of the records I have were for sale, just his newer stuff, including "Alive Just for Love" (2001), "Dust" (2002), and "Unshattered" (2006). All the stuff he sang from these records was beautiful and this made me wonder about the separate groups inside and outside within Emo's. Why did the kids inside cling to a sound that actual "80s bands" had moved on from? I suppose the sound is new to them, but why try to make a replica instead of just be influenced by it? And why didn't the crowds mix more? I was curious about the younger version but I didn't see a lot of the people in black go inside. Similarly, the kids inside absolutely did not go to the outside stage and see someone who was actually creating the music that influenced the bands they came to see. Why not? Weren't they curious? Did they not get the connection that the venue owners were clearly making? I felt like Peter Murphy deserved a bit more, really. There he was, sweating onstage, just past 50, making sure his voice was hitting each note perfectly. And making sure not one bit of his performance was stale or nostalgic at all. He deserves to be honored like David Bowie, no? Ah, yes, the ever-present comparison.

In an interview here, he mentions that his work is a bit more like Judy Garland instead of David Bowie. He states that Bowie is more calculated (that's a polite way of putting it) and that he just can't help what he does onstage, that something just comes out of him. He shines. And that is so inspirational. Grad school really beats something out of me, at times. People can be so condescending. Texas isn't a bowl of bon bons, either. It offends people just to be who you are. And no one wants to give props to a hardcore chica with a brain, considering all the sexism and racism down here. But Peter Murphy shines, despite people ripping off his stuff, despite not being as famous as others, despite the heat and less than ideal circumstances. And it isn't calculated and it isn't stale. He was doing his unique performances (androgyny, cages, goth, etc.) before Bowie (although Bowie is older), before Ministry, before Nine Inch Nails, and even though he doesn't go there anymore, what has remained constant is the originality of his songs, including lyrics, melodies and arrangements. He totally remains true to the voice he has, and this is what inspires me. I often doubt myself, feel like it's not worth it to keep writing because so many people don't get me, are downright rude to me. But I found myself smiling, smiling wide at this concert. I didn't expect it. Vincent said he hadn't seen me so happy in a long time and the truth was I hadn't been.

So maybe Thaxton is onto something. Sometimes you just have to keep doing what you love - even if people try to beat it out of you - because it keeps you sane. I've kept writing, despite considerable pressure from people who'd rather keep me quiet. On a previous post, about the Caribs and Misery, I wrote a bit about this, about a paper that brought me lots of drama. A prof made life hell for me and devalued my work. One of my sources, a person who I researched but never met, found me and left a comment on the blog. His name is Ben Palacio, and he said that this paper that basically cost me credit for a class because of its politics "deserves five stars." I don't have a big audience, but maybe I need to value the quality of the audience I do have. And maybe I just need to keep on shining because it keeps me sane. I thank Peter Murphy, Ben Palacio and, most of all, my husband Vincent, for helping me see that.

Austin City Limits, here I come!

Deciphering the Image: Road to Reality

2008-05-18T19:13:00.004-05:00

Images play an important part of our learning. They are studied by journalists, advertisers, visual artists and filmmakers. Humans learn by copying and oftentimes we find ourselves copying our surroundings without even realizing it. This can be seen if we examine how people dress in one office as opposed to another, or if we look at how people dance in different nightclubs. Without any verbal conversation, people end up copying each others looks and moves. It isn't that we're unoriginal. It's just how we learn. However, what we must also realize is that sometimes we mimic things before we completely understand what the meaning behind them is. No one knows this better than parents who are completely horrified when they hear their two or three year-old child say a bad word. The innocent doesn't understand what he or she is saying, but if there is a group of people who hear the verbal flub, the resulting horror (or laughter) is beyond the control of the well-meaning parents.

Let's take this same idea and apply it to adults. Adults probably don't swear without knowing what they are saying, but how often do adults repeat things they have heard without really understanding what they are saying? The jargon of "WMDs" and "superdelegates," for example, catches like wildfire because of the constant repetition that occurs on TV, the radio and in print media. The attached article doesn't really matter. It could be complete babble as far as political press writers are concerned; all that is necessary is to repeat the word that they want you to repeat. How often do you find yourself singing a song that you don't care for? Music companies have paid stations to have the song played multiple times an hour so that you will know it whether you like it or not. It is what our brains naturally do.

Therefore, the images that we see over and over, if you think about it in this context, are VERY influential. So influential that many times what we see will supercede what we hear. It doesn't matter that the shows on TV are fictional. When we see African Americans and Latinos in raggedy clothes with guns over and over, despite all of the educated African Americans and Latinos in the world, we will immediately associate African Americans and Latinos with the images we've seen on TV. Videogames, too.

This past week, I had the wonderful opportunity to take a trip along the Texas-Mexico border in order to look at conservation practices on both sides and to try and understand how the efforts can be joined. This is part of the honor I have as a fellow in the Hispanic Leadership Program in Agriculture and Natural Resources, which will soon be known as the Hispanic Leaders in Agriculture and the Environment. There were a couple of conversations that really made me think that I would like to share with you.

The first conversation was about the film Babel. I'm not sure who brought the film up but it was clear that everyone thought the film was interesting. I was once a film major, so whenever I look at a movie, my critical analysis runs pretty deep, but I try not to take it all too seriously. However, I found it really interesting when several people insisted that a certain scene, one where two boys irresponsibly shoot at a bus, took place in the Middle East. I thought to myself, "I wrote a paper on this movie, I could've sworn that the two boys actually weren't in the Middle East and that was part of the irony of the movie." See, the film was trying to show that the resulting chaos, where the careless but ultimately harmless boys, were considered terrorists even though they lived nowhere near the Middle East. I tried to say this to my fellow moviegoers. I said, "Um, weren't the boys actually in a country in Africa?" But no one wanted to believe me, so I just stayed quiet. Well, if you look at the "Morocco Text" section of the link to Babel above, you can see that the scene I'm describing does, indeed, take place in an African country. It takes place in an African country that is over 3,000 miles away from Iraq and the supposed "terrorists" we are trying to subdue. Why didn't anyone believe me? This really perplexed me upon confirming what I already knew. I had to face the fact that they were only looking at the image. They saw two boys in sand, shooting at a bus and regardless of the dialogue in the film, they equated the image with the Middle East. The propaganda, the repetition of a certain image on TV and in the news has been repeated to such an extent, that even when these folks were given different information that should've broken the stereotype, the stereotype stuck.

I have to admit, this disappoints me. The next conversation that I will share, however, didn't just disappoint me. I have to admit, I was dumbfounded. A few of us were eating breakfast at our hotel and the morning news was on. All the same rhetoric about Obama, Clinton and McCain was being repeated and, unfortunately, Rev. Dr. Wright's name came up again. I asked someone if she had heard about the controversy and she said she had. In her opinion, the image of Obama and Wright fighting in the media was equivalent to "divide and conquer" and was in line with "how to create a slave," the racist practice by Willie Lynch that our country was founded on. I thought she had a valid point, but I thought, from a PR standpoint, there might be more to it. When another person asked what we were talking about we mentioned the topic and he immediately called Wright arrogant and selfish. This person maintained that Rev. Dr. Wright made controversial comments in order to become famous. This is when I had to reveal my own relationship to Rev. Dr. Wright. I mentioned that I had been to Wright's church and that he was an excellent preacher and I also mentioned that my dad had worked with Wright (not in any official capacity). It was quite clear that my own personal experience with Wright was less important than what others had seen in the media. In other words, the image was more important than actual physical contact with the man. I can't necessarily argue with that. I've been guilty of the same thing.

Let me explain how Rev. Dr. Wright helped my father, Rev. Dr. Samuel Acosta. My dad is a very educated man, even though he doesn't tell people this. I take every chance to tell people this because they never expect to hear it. He went to Princeton Theological Seminary and Chicago Theological Seminary (which is part of the University of Chicago). He is a minister and a pastoral counselor. Dad's goals, as a young leader, included helping Latino families who had just moved to the United States stay intact despite cultural differences. As he was building his church and clientele in Chicago in the 1970s-1980s, Papi (Dad) approached Wright, who had a successful church, with some questions. Lutheran General had approached Papi with an opportunity to have a practice in one of their hospitals. This would be lucrative but Dad was unsure. Rev. Dr. Wright told him that the real work was with the people at the groundlevel. He said that the work would be much harder and thankless, oftentimes, but that if he did his job well, he would be able to create a strong community base and really help people. My dad ended up following Wright's advice and opened a practice in Logan Square instead of within the suburban hospital. Papi often charged his humble clients well below the standard rate. He's the only therapist I've heard of who would charge $20, sometimes $15. But his clients came back, they set goals, and they reached those goals (very different than therapy that goes on forever as an exercise in self-indulgence). And our church, First Spanish United Church of Christ, grew and was completely self-sustained. I did not share this information with the folks I spoke with because it seemed that the image of Wright was more influential than anything that I could say and I wanted to respect their knowledge, but I didn't understand why they seemed uninterested in my family's experience with the man. Or with my journalism/PR background.

Advertisers and publicists know that there is no bad publicity. It doesn't matter if the publicity says something controversial or if the publicity seems to ruin someone's credibility. Ultimately, the goal is name or phrase recognition, and this is why we must consider that Wright and Obama may be much smarter than we give them credit. We could look at it as Wright just wanting to become famous, or we could look at it as two African American men using this opportunity to speak about issues that the majority of United States citizens have never spoken about. For example, some of the soundbites show Wright talking about the possibility of the U.S. government creating AIDS to hurt certain populations, or talking about the Israel-Palestine conflict, or other controversial issues. These topics have been talked about in the circles I've lived in, roughly, for the past 20 years or more. Still, there was a huge population of U.S. citizens who NEVER mentioned AIDS being a racist lab experiment. Now that population mentions it all the time. Yes, they mention it in association with Wright; yes, they mention what an appalling notion it is; yes, they mention it with anger and without the least bit of understanding or desire to consider its possible truth. But they mention it. Like an overplayed Britney Spears record. And they never did before. Did Wright and Obama stage their dispute in order to get people talking about stuff they didn't talk about before? I don't know. But I do know that the result is that some different words are being repeated as a result of their public "dispute."

My own work, with the Hispanic Leaders program and in the English Department at the University of Texas at San Antonio, involves teaching young people how to decipher what the truth is in the midst of stereotypes in texts (novels, TV shows, films, music). For example, Esmeralda Santiago's novel, America's Dream, could easily be interpreted as another novel about a battered Latina. However, in it she hints at truths: the U.S. Navy in Vieques; depression caused by Latino populations moving from rural to urban environments; and the unhealthy overcrowding of the Bronx. Through some basic tenets, I'm helping students figure out how to squeeze the truth out of the constant propaganda we are exposed to. One of the tenets directly relates to my Hispanic Leaders work and it is very simple: just look at the environments in these texts (some folks have been doing this through ecocriticism). I'll be presenting on this topic in Chicago next month at the International Conference on Teacher Education and Social Justice. Please feel free to stop by.

While the tenets are meant for high school and college-age students, I'm beginning to realize that perhaps there are some other people that might benefit from them, too.

Justified Murder, Slave Quarters and Apartheid

2008-04-25T17:06:00.002-05:00

Last December I had the wonderful opportunity to visit one of the greatest cities on the planet, New Orleans. Nola is a world-class city and the people who live there are some of the most beautiful people I have had the honor of meeting. I just fell in love with New Orleans and I don't think anything will ever make me change my mind.

Now, we all know that New Orleans is the birthplace of jazz and many other musical art forms. This is due to the many cultures that are represented there. You have the French and Spanish influence, the African influence (most important, I'd say), and the Caribbean influence, just to name a few. This is a colonial town but we also must remember that it was Louisiana before it was part of the United States. The French, who went back and forth in power in this area with the Spanish, did not want the territory to become part of the U.S. and to this day, it is not unusual for anyone born in the area to consider themselves Creole instead of American. Above, you can see a typical colonial house; it has been transformed from the original Caribbean structure that was the norm in the area when the French colonists came. They were influenced by the architecture in Haiti/Dominican Republic and when they came up North, most of what was built was Caribbean in influence. According to one Old River Road guide, the architecture in the French Quarter is actually quite Spanish and one can see many of the former Spanish names of the streets along with the current French names. The plantation home above is called Evergreen and what is unique about this place is that the very wealthy lady who owns it has also preserved the 22 slave quarters that are also on the property. You can see one of them below. The cabin is meant to house two families and you can see the size of one of the sides of the cabin; not much space, at all. These cabins are entirely original - the cypress wood is very strong - and sharecroppers still lived in them in the 1940s. I was totally humbled when I stepped inside.

Matilda Gray Stream is the woman who has made sure that this only collection of slave quarters of its kind has been preserved. In the main house, she also has a collection of dolls that a local African American artist fashioned after the actual slaves who worked on the plantation. She used the names and work information found in business documents. Many of the records are well-kept. We can see exactly who lived on the plantation, what work he/she did and what his/her monetary value was. Laborers were worth what they could do (a blacksmith was worth more than an elderly field hand, for example); house slaves were considered "private property," which meant that if the owner went bankrupt, they could not be taken as collateral. When one of the previous owners of Evergreen did die, his "private property" had stayed with him but had decreased in value because of aging.

There is a reason I am bringing up New Orleans and the idea of slave quarters and private property today. First of all, what I've been given the chance to learn in New Orleans is that the real issue about the Katrina tragedy is not that the levees broke or that funding for repairs has not come through yet - that is a tragedy, of course, but the real tragedy is that African American folks were given subpar living conditions to begin with. There is no difference between the Lower 9th Ward or the 7th Ward and the slave quarters you see on this page. The residents who lived in the 7th and 9th Ward shacks lived dangerously close to factories and, of course, to the water. Just like the slaves living close to the master's mansion, the folks who lived in these wards lived close to where their work was. What has changed is that the mansion is now safely away from the hazardous living conditions of where the "slaves" live. That is, the people who profited from the work of the honorable people who lived in the Lower 9th Ward, for example, did not live in the risky area. I had the awesome opportunity to go on a tour of the Katrina damage. The activists and leaders at the Ashe' Cultural Arts Center gave me and others at the National Performance Network Conference the tour and showed us how the land in the Lower 9th Ward is not fit to build on because it is too low and there are laws that prohibit this. Nonetheless, the city has not raised the land to regulations and there are still folks living on it (even though most of the area is overgrown grass, despite Brad Pitt's efforts).

New Orleans, in general, is having a difficult time finding and maintaining homes for low income residents. This trend in the greater United States has been well documented for the past decade and a half and the articles on it continue today. Add this to the healthcare crisis and our poor public education and what it all adds up to for people of color (Blacks, Latinos, Asians and all imaginable impoverished races and combinations of said races) is one thing: APARTHEID. Yes, I believe that this is what we are living under and what is happening in the U.S. today (what has been happening, yo!). My old Webster's College Dictionary defines apartheid as something uniquely South African, but Dictionary.com expands it to include all forms of segregation. And we are definitely segregated in terms of healthcare, education and housing, but more importantly we are segregated in terms of JUSTICE and INFORMATION.

How else can we explain a New York judge finding it perfectly permissible to shoot an unarmed Black man 50 times? I read somewhere that Sean Bell was supposedly unruly; couldn't they just beat him up, then? If you're going to be unjust, can't you temper it with a little sanity and sanctity for life? This is one kind of justice for one kind of citizen and a totally different kind of justice for another kind of citizen. An unruly Black man gets murdered and an unruly White murderer gets acquitted. Note that the link to SeeingBlack.com above also announces the Bill Moyers interview with Rev. Dr. Jeremiah White which airs tonight on PBS at 9 p.m. (not sure what time zone that is, so check your local listings). Here is another perfect example of how Rev. Dr. White, Senator Obama, and now my former professor, Dr. Bill Ayers, have been used to discredit the work African American men have accomplished. Senator Hillary Clinton, no less, is the one to have tried to discredit Obama by associating him with Ayers. Who discredits the information provided by White and/or rich/powerful people who manipulate the media? No one. If someone tries to point how how the White House hires military men to conduct supposedly unbiased investigations of how the war in Iraq is being conducted or if abuses are occurring in Guantanamo, that person is a conspiracy theorist at best (a terrorist sympathizer, at worst).

If the information comes from a person of color, it is discredited. If the information comes from the good ol' boys club, it is applauded, even if it is wrong. If the unruly person is a person of color, we can kill the guy. If the unruly person works for the good ol' boys, get some good lead out, sharp-shooter! If the housing or education is for the poor or the public, good luck finding something of value. If the housing is for the rich, sleep easy, you don't have to worry about floods or poisoning from the local factory a few yards away. If that doesn't sound like apartheid to you, I don't know what it will take to convince you.

What is interesting to me is that while I was getting a really educational tour of New Orleans by Ashe' and by the wonderful tour guide at Evergreen (This lovely White Creole woman literally said, "Look, the slaves here were treated somewhat better than the slaves that were owned by the English, but they were slaves and in the end, that is despicable. I work here and I show these cabins and I have to live with seeing the cabins every day. I have to remember." I think it makes a big difference if someone can own up to that.), at Oak Valley, the other plantation tour I took, the tone was VERY different. At Oak Valley, the tour guide wears a crinoline hoop skirt, offers tour-goers mint juleps and paints a lovely picture of plantation life, along with the imagined slaves fanning you on the porch, okay? How absolutely sick is that? Well, how is that any different from what is going on in the U.S. right now? Some of us want to face the past, honor what happened and move forward honestly, while others would like to build upon the lies and keep things just as they have always been - very segregated, an apartheid.

You wouldn't believe all the middle-aged White people who loved the tour at Oak Valley, an estate that has been featured in "The Long Hot Summer" with Cybill Shepard and in "Interview with the Vampire," with Brad Pitt (he keeps popping up). One woman told me on the bus that she had always fantasized about sitting on the wrap-around porch, relaxing to the breeze, looking over the estate. I wanted to ask her, "And were the slaves part of that fantasy?" Our memory in the U.S. is quite convenient.

If you're interested in seeing all the New Orleans pictures that I took, click on the link to gpwriters (on the right) and join the group. There is a link to the pics on the main page of the group. The pictures include shots of documents that list the value of the slaves on the plantations. Note that a skilled slave could be valued at over $1,000 and this is back in the 17 and 1800s, so imagine what the work of that person is worth today. Probably a lot more than the average person of color gets paid. I would say it is worth better housing, better education and definitely having one's life intact on the eve of one's marriage.

Silencio Real and the Afro-Latina Voice in Film

2008-02-08T19:23:00.001-06:00

Free Ph.D., yo! Here's the scholar in training, sending you some of the stuff she's been looking at. It's long, but it should be easy to read, and it's about Afro-Latina's, man. Where you gonna get words on mis mujeres? There are not a lot of places, but that's changing. Anyway, let me know if you think this work is hot, 'kay? I'm gonna present this at a conference in less than a week and girl is nervous. Wish me luck!

(I apologize if the formatting gets funky.)

Silencio Reál: The Historical Afro-Latina Voice in “I Am Cuba” and “Anne B. Real”

It was a typical workday evening in Jersey City for my husband and me. We had our meal, talked of our day and then walked over to Gandhi – our video rental guy – to see if there was something worth seeing. Gandhi was very kind to us and often bought films for the store that he knew only we would rent – the art films. He didn’t have any on this day, so we had to rent a movie about another an inner city kid trying to make it. I was expecting to make my wisecracks about the inspirational teacher who chooses to live in the projects just so he can relate to his students, or the trash-talking comic relief sidekick who only serves as an extension of the main character’s personality, or the hokey line that gets said at the beginning of the film by someone who later dies and then is later repeated by the main character at a poignant moment in order to create a circle of closure. I expected all of this from Anne B. Real, but as the film progressed, I found myself saying things like, “There are all kinds of Latinos in this film” and “They show the difference in class between White and Black Latinos!” I was shocked because I had never seen any other film depict race or class within the Latino community as this one does. Well, that is not true, but I will get to that later. Anne B. Real soon became a film that I used in my classrooms in order to address the various ways in which Latinos speak and act based on class and race. I have not encountered a student who is not inspired by the film.

I mentioned that I had, indeed, seen one other film that presents Latinos of different races in varying situations based on class and color lines. This film is I Am Cuba/Ya Kuba. I Am Cuba is a more complex film than Anne B. Real and much has been written about its being propaganda and ineffective in terms of character. I agree with Martin Scorsese, in the DVD’s special features section, and other critics in that the film is a poem – it was written by Cuban poet Enrique Pineda Barnet and Russian poet Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko – but my main concern in examining the film is the Afro-Latina who is at the center of the opening sequence and who graces the cover of The Ultimate Edition DVD of the film. After seeing Anne B. Real, I thought of the parallels between its Afro-Latina main character, named Cynthia/Annie B. Real, and I Am Cuba’s main Afro-Latina character, named Maria/Betty. Both live in impoverished conditions, both have a difficult time speaking due to fear and multiple language usage, both are being exploited by men, and both have lines of dialogue that use signifying, or double meaning. If one looks at the two films, one could easily come to the conclusion that Maria/Betty represents the Afro-Latina’s silenced voice in history and that Cynthia/Annie B. Real represents the Afro-Latina taking back ownership of her words, but the fact that the two films were primarily written by men creates a problem with this interpretation. However, I believe that because genuine Afro-Latinas were cast in these roles (unlike Angelina Jolie’s turn as a Black person in A Mighty Heart, for example), the Afro-Latina voice does come out despite the scripts that would imply otherwise. This creates a jarring effect, especially in I Am Cuba when the script contradicts a voice that is so clearly there.

I will first attempt to examine the silences that both of the characters in the two films exhibit. Maria/Betty lives in a shanty town in pre-revolutionary Cuba and she is working as a prostitute in Havana. She speaks Spanish and some English, but we rarely hear her speak at all in the film. Similarly, Cynthia/Annie B. Real lives in the projects of Washington Heights, her family is on welfare, and she is a struggling student since her father died. Before that, she was a straight A student. Cynthia speaks Spanish and English and she can speak varying dialects of the two. Her art is poetry and rhymes, but she also plays with sounding like a radio announcer, a scholar, and a ghetto girl. Lisa Delpit, in “The Silenced Dialogue,” states that, “There are codes or rules for participating in power; that is, there is a ‘culture of power.’ The codes or rules I am speaking of relate to linguistic forms, communicative strategies, and presentation of self” (25).

Both Maria and Cynthia are well aware of this culture of power in their environments. This is why Maria, when prostituting herself, becomes “Betty,” and Cynthia, when attempting to become a more powerful alter ego rapper, becomes “Annie B. Real.” The two women are presented as silenced because of the culture of power; they are poor, Afro-Latinas with limited options. Maria/Betty has resigned herself to being exploited and Cynthia/Annie B. Real has resigned herself to giving her poetry/raps to her brother so that he can sell them for money. Her brother repeatedly states throughout the film that “no one wants to see a girl rapper.” When Maria, as Betty, is asked if she wants a drink at the nightclub she works at, thinks about it and answers “yes” in English, even though it seems she could care less about the drink. She is performing for the culture of power that surrounds her in the form of men from the United States who want to have a good time. Both Maria and Cynthia often appear to hesitate when speaking, as if they are thinking of which language to use and how to use the language properly. They appear nervous and hedge often. I argue that when a woman has to traverse between various cultures – Black, White, Latino, Americano, male, female, urban, rural – she will remain quiet and observe and it will take her longer to understand how to deal with certain customs than someone who has only one culture to learn.

I also argue that, within the Afro-Latino culture, once these varying cultures are reconciled, a successful Afro-Latina will orally express her understanding of what is going on, of her role within the culture of power. Victor Villanueva, in a speech at the University of Texas at San Antonio, stated that, in terms of Western composition, we currently get stuck in the first three parts of the Latin model: inventio, which is ideas; dispositio, which is organization; and elocutio, which is style. People of color, who often come from an oral culture, however, do move on to the next step, pronuntiatio, which is delivery. This, in turn, creates memoria, which is remembering. Memoria is, historically, a female muse, and Villanueva argues that we must not exclude these last steps because they are what create understanding at the cellular level; when someone delivers something orally and it is combines all the previous steps, we feel it within our DNA, we remember. Maria and Cynthia do this in their respective stories, despite scripts that do not include many facts about women in their positions and that, in fact, use the ideas from other cultures to tell their stories.

Before I get into how the women are successful in presenting a historical Afro-Latina voice, I will explain how the films fail the stories of the two women. I Am Cuba, we already know, is written by two men, one of which is not even Cuban. If we really want to get into silencing the Afro-Cuban voice, we can also choose to view the DVD with the Russian dubbing, which creates a linguistic confusion that puts the viewer in the same bind as Maria/Betty. However, if we view the film in Spanish, the male perspective dominates the screen and the exploitation of Cuban women is center stage. This causes the authors to make some mistakes. They use Afro-Cuban rhythms to represent Maria/Betty’s anger at having to be a prostitute and create a scene where she dances madly and, “Afro-Cuban essence surges out of her. This exaltation of the unique, essential qualities of Cubans to heighten the sense of their exploitation contributes unwittingly to the film’s opposition” (Ching, Buckley and Lozano-Alonzo 263). This is the only moment when Maria/Betty gets aggressive and it is constructed as out-of-control. In another scene, when she finds out that her boyfriend is part of the revolution, she says she is scared. According to Ching, Buckley and Lozano-Alonzo, she “becomes immediately marginal to this revolutionary endeavor for stating her fear” (262). Maria/Betty has been represented as a victim and a very quiet, half-crazy one, at that. This does not depict the historical reality of Cuba at the time. According to Ilja A. Luciak, in “Gender Roles in the Revolutionary War,” women were vital members of the movement and nearly 1/3 of the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front combatants were women. While it is true that the majority of these women were from privileged backgrounds, the tone in Cuba was that women were not naïve bystanders (4-11). Furthermore, prostitution did not carry the puritanical shame that would drive a mind crazy as implied by the film.

According to Isabel Larguia and John Dumoulin, in “Women’s Equality and the Cuban Revolution, 13.7% of women were economically active in Cuba in 1953 and “[r]egistered prostitutes comprise a significant number” within this percentage” (346). However, Larguia and Dumoulin also acknowledge that “[t]he concept of the woman as an exclusively sexual, dehumanized biological being was reinforced by extensive prostitution” (346). Despite this, women were clearly poised at this time to begin to make changes in their sexist world. After the revolution, by 1970, 18.5% of women were working and by 1980, 31.3% of women were working (Farnós, González and Hernández 200). By 1986, women in the education, public health and social assistance, and finance and insurance industries in Cuba outnumbered the men (Safa 30). In other words, Maria/Betty represents the moment in history when working women were poised to make many gains in Cuba, and this is not at all in the script of the film.

The way in which Maria/Betty does show deeper understanding of the situation comes through pronuntiatio and memoria, but first let’s take a look at how Cuban and Dominican culture are related linguistically. This is important because Cynthia/Annie B. Real is Dominican and she and Maria/Betty use a similar technique to demonstrate deeper understanding that is not necessarily written into the script. According to John M. Lipski, in “Africans in Colonial Spanish America,” in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, native speakers of Haitian arrived in Cuba and they learned Spanish as a second language, exhibiting similar traits documented for the Dominican Republic (110). Immigration from Cuba and Puerto Rico to the Dominican Republic was documented, too (112-113). Lipski further states that “[t]he major extra-Hispanic influence on nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Dominican Spanish was Haitian Creole (114). Esther Figueroa, in “Rude Sounds,” cites the importance of silence and what is not said when referring to practices in Haiti and Barbados and other countries in the Caribbean (85). If we synthesize what these scholars are saying, it is clear that African languages have influenced the way both English and Spanish are used and that Cuba and the Dominican Republic, through waves of immigration and similar ancestry, share in this influence. More importantly, they share in the way silences are used.

According to Stephanie Jensen-Moulton, in “Gender Dynamics in the Film Anne B. Real,” Cynthia “must be able to function as a performer in order to empower her status as a creator….She must actualize her rhymes in a physical performance before they are legitimate” (70). In other words, Cynthia must work against being silenced or choosing to be silent in order for her words to have any significance. What we also must consider is that Cynthia is being silenced as a character, just like Maria/Betty, because her role was written by two Latino men and a Jewish woman. In the film Cynthia believes she must compete in the male-dominated rap world in order to be successful because she was written that way and one has to wonder if most female writers in Washington Heights actually believe that. Several scenes that depict Cynthia in the bathroom, show her singing R&B, rapping, and mimicking a radio announcer in Spanish. She is skilled linguistically but when she is in public, she says very little. The bathroom scenes also depict insecurities that question beauty notions and racial identity. When Cynthia does become Annie B. Real and raps, the raps that she has are “clean” and empowering to women without being insulting to men. Janice Richardson, even though she is a singer/songwriter, did not write any of the rhymes in the film. The rhymes were written by two men: Canadian rapper Verse and Luis Moro, who also wrote the screen story for the film. According to the commentary on the film’s DVD, Verse also trained Janice to rap. Interestingly, Moro states on the commentary that when Janice does rap, “it gives new female dimension to the rap.” Exactly how much female dimension – specifically, Afro-Latina dimension – can exist in Anne B. Real when so much of the work is written by men? Yes, there is a female director but why did the female director, Lisa France, decide to tell an Afro-Latina story through the framework of The Diary of Anne Frank? Why did Antonio Macia, the story writer, choose to tell an Afro-Latina story this way? He is a white Latino; why the Afro-Latino subtext? We stretch this question into our analysis of I Am Cuba, as well. Why is the first segment of the film so strong in its Afro-Latino subject matter? The later sequences only show the Black population of Cuba as a backdrop, with an occasional speaker here and there. And why does I Am Cuba show two out of its three female main characters as being exploited by men? A White Cubana escapes a troop of seedy Naval Officers with the help of another White Cuban, but Maria/Betty has no such defender.

I believe our filmmakers which include the already named Lisa France, of Anne B. Real, and the famed Mikhail Kalatozov, of I Am Cuba, were drawn to the Afro-Latina as subject because they realized that there are truths that Afro-Latinas know that have not been voiced. Because, perhaps, these filmmakers did not feel comfortable with actually asking Afro-Latinas to contribute to their projects in terms of writing, they probably felt that some of that knowledge would come through if they casted actual Afro-Latinas. Given the critical success of the two films, I do believe the directors were right in their casting choices. There are specific ways of speaking that the actors provide that are distinctly Afro-Latina, in that they merge influences from Africa and Latin America with women’s ways of speaking. There are two scenes, one from each film, that reflect this historical voice. In I Am Cuba, Betty is about to go to a hotel with her scholarly Americano, who has shown a great interest in her crucifix because he collects them. He suggests that instead they go “to her place” because he “wants to see how these women live.” He then translates the word “interesting” to Betty, so she will understand why he wants to go to her home to solicit her services. Betty pauses, looks away, and then says, “No, no es interesante.” We know that Betty understands conversational English for her job. She could have spoken in English and said, “No, it’s not interesting.” It is not a difficult phrase. But Betty wasn’t really speaking to her john because she knew he wasn’t really listening anyway. The silent pause is what signifies the phrase to have a multiple meaning. Betty, who is disgusted by the tourists, hates their world and probably thinks of her shanty town as more honest and honorable than the world of the tourist. She knows it is a place of many interesting truths that she could never explain to the tourist and she also knows that the tourist suspects that but instead of wanting to truly understand that, he’d rather buy a little excursion into poverty. She says her home is not interesting and this means, “What do you care? You don’t have to live there,” or “No fancy cocktails for you at my place,” or “I don’t want you telling anecdotes about my life because you don’t have your own ‘interesting’ life.”

In Anne B. Real, Cynthia has a similar moment with a teacher who happens to be the White Latino who abandoned Cynthia’s sister who was pregnant with his bi-racial child. In the scene, this teacher is talking to her about what she needs to do in order to pass high school and get into college, implying that he knows what is best for her. She agrees to return to classes but she has many things to take care of first. The teacher clearly wants to know more, so she humors him by telling him the problems that she has been having with her drug addict brother. Cynthia says all of this while looking away from her teacher. He wants to help and asks if her brother has hurt her, and this is where she turns to him, she simply says, “Thank you, Mr. Dominguez.” This “thank you” has multiple meanings, as well. We know from a conversation with Cynthia’s sister Janet, earlier in the film, that Mr. Dominguez has changed his name from Miguel Dominguez to Michael Smith. Because he is a White Latino, this has allowed him the education and career that he wanted to pursue. When Cynthia calls him “Mr. Dominguez,” she is saying, “How dare you accuse my brother of hurting me, you can’t judge him” and “You are trying to do something now when it is too late,” and “How can you expect to care for me when you got my sister pregnant and abandoned her and your child,” and “We’ve gotten along fine without you,” and “You aren’t fit to help me until you atone for your mistakes,” and “I have grown recently and I am ready to do what I need to do.” When Moro commented that Richardson brought something uniquely female to the role, he might have been neglecting the fact that all of her material had been written by people who were not specifically Afro-Latina, but he was right in that she does frame all the words within the Afro-Latina context. Luz María Collazo does the same as María/Betty.

What these Afro-Latina actresses bring to the voice of their Afro-Latina characters is something that happens when one, historically, has dealt with multiple languages and communities and has been treated as if one’s knowledge is not worth knowing. Yes, both Maria and Cynthia have been silenced to the extent that they are not noticed unless they wear alter egos that go by the names of “Betty” and “Annie B. Real.” But they have learned to use those silences, along with language, in order to create meaning that they know but that others will not understand and cannot get offended by. Maria can blame her silences on not understanding the foreign language that has intruded on her territory. This is the colonial past in our Afro-Latina timeline. Cynthia, however, has actually mastered all of the languages she has been exposed to and feigns ignorance in order to avoid confrontation. However, when she finally decides to become confrontational, she can not only use silences, but she melds all her languages into a rap that comes off as tough, sweet and humorous at the same time. Their words and silences, if read correctly, contain wisdom can end up silencing the audience. The fact that the writers and filmmakers did not use Afro-Latinas to write the scripts or raps is sad because it does dilute the Afro-Latina voice, but the voice is still there. Indeed, the Afro-Latina has historically had to use languages and dialogues that were not of her own construction, but the trick in their language construction is that they will make do with what is given to them. According to the commentary on Anne B. Real, Luis Moro and Lisa France attempted to put in references to Anne Frank’s diary throughout the film, including a plaid diary, chain link fences, and eating potatoes, however the Jewish voice is not the voice that resonates with the audience. It is the Afro-Latina voice that stays with the viewer, even though it was not written in.

This is where Villanueva’s pronuntiatio and memoria come in. When Collazo and Richardson voice the lines out loud, a remembering occurs. Ed Morales, in “Toward a Spanglish Hemisphere,” states that “there exists very little understanding in North America that the everyday salsa or merengue star is actively engaged in a project of multicultural artistry. He/she is completely fluent in the language that celebrates a union of and contradiction between European romanticism and African call and response” (286). I add to Morales’ statement that the everyday Afro-Latino/a is engaged in this multicultural linguistic artistry and I would include the influence of the indigenous populations of the Caribbean and the Americas, as well. The signifying, or double meaning, as Henry Louis Gates, Jr. has defined it, has grown into multiple meanings. The silence, which Lisa Delpit attributes to interactions with the culture of power, has changed into a pause that informs, a pause that mimics the calm before the Caribbean storm that has something to say. The use of language has turned into a stew, a sancocho, where the exploited Afro-Latina knows that she is going to get someone else’s leftovers, but she is still going to make it into her own creation, and it will taste good. The historical voice that we hear in these two films is definitely incomplete, but it is some of the very little that Afro-Latinas have been allowed to depict in film and if we are to learn from it, we must understand what part of that voice has come through. We must learn this if only to ensure that one day, the script will contain all of the missing parts.

Works Cited
Anne B. Real. Screenplay by Antonio Macia and Lisa France. Dir. Lisa France. Perf. Janice
Richardson. Screen Media Films, 2002.
Ching, Erik and Christina Buckley and Angélica Lozano-Alonzo. “Film Analysis: Soy Cuba/
Ya Kuba (I Am Cuba).” Reframing Latin America: A Cultural Theory Reading of the
Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries. Eds. Erik Ching, Christina Buckley and Angélica
Lozano-Alonzo. Austin, Texas: University of Texas Press, 2007. 259-268.
Delpit, Lisa. “The Silenced Dialogue: Power and Pedagogy in Educating Other People’s
Children.” Other People’s Children: Cultural Conflict in the Classroom. Ed. Lisa
Delpit. New York, New York: The New Press, 1995. 21-47.
Farnós, Alfonso and Fernando González and Raúl Hernandez. “Cuba.” Working Women in
Socialist Countries: The Fertility Connection. Eds. Valentina Bodrova and Richard
Anker. Geneva, Switzerland: International Labor Organisation, 1985. 197-233.
Figueroa, Esther. “Rude Sounds: Kiss Teeth and Negotiation of the Public Sphere.” Politeness
and Face in Caribbean Creoles. Eds. Susanne Muhleisen and Bettina Migge.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2005. 73-99.
I Am Cuba. Screenplay by Enrique Pineda Barnet and Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko.
Dir. Mikahail Kalatozov. Milestone Film and Video, 1964.
Jensen-Moulton, Stephanie. “Gender Dynamics in the Film Anne B. Real.” Critical Minded:
New Approaches to Hip Hop Studies. Eds. Ellie M. Hisama and Evan Rapport.
Brooklyn, New York: Institute for Studies in American Music, 2005. 61-76.
Larguia, Isabel and John Dumoulin. “Women’s Equality and the Cuban Revolution.” Women
and Change in Latin America. Eds. June Nash and Helen I. Safa and contributors. South
Hadley, Massachusetts: Bergin & Garvey Publishers, Inc., 1986. 344-368.
Lipski, John M. “Africans in Colonial Spanish America.” A History of Afro-Hispanic
Language: Five Centuries, Five Continents. Ed. John M. Lipski. New York, New York:
Cambridge University Press, 2005. 95-128.
Luciak, Ilja A. “Gender Roles in the Revolutionary War: Initiating Change.” Gender and
Democracy in Cuba. Ed. Ilja A. Luciak. Gainesville, Florida: University Press of
Florida, 2007. 1-12.
Morales, Ed. “Toward a Spanglish Hemisphere.” Living in Spanglish: The Search for Latino
Identity in America. Ed. Ed Morales. New York, New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2002.
273-298.
Safa, Helen I. “Gender and Industrialization in the Caribbean Basin.” The Myth of the Male
Breadwinner: Women and Industrialization in the Caribbean. Ed. Helen I. Safa. Boulder,
Colorado: Westview Press, 1995. 1-36.
Villanueva, Victor. Speech. Language and Identity Graduate Course. University of Texas at
San Antonio. 13 Sept. 2007.

Celebrate your blessings!

2007-12-21T14:29:00.000-06:00

…let’s shine together on New Year’s Eve!

We think you are beautiful
and we’d love to have you around
to celebrate the blessings of the year,
toast to new beginnings,
and laugh like village idiots.

Come play with us:
December 31, 2007
8 p.m. – ‘til….

email dsegotism@yahoo.com for details

We’ll have food, drink, dance, toys and surprises galore!

Much love,

Grisel and Vincent

The Caribs, Free Ph.D. and Misery

2007-11-30T09:41:00.000-06:00

I had a really great Thanksgiving this year. Usually I prefer the later holidays but I felt truly thankful to be with my husband and my parents for Thanksgiving. First of all, the food was kickin'. I told Mami that she made her best meal ever this year and I meant that. I will always remember Mami's Thanksgiving '07. But the real feast was the warmth that I was able to share with the family. I felt totally relaxed being out of school for a few days and it was great to laugh and share silly stories with everyone. My parents believe in deep, long laughs - es lo mejor, yo! There are other things to be thankful for, too. I've found a really great mentor in Dr. Sonja Lanehart, a linguist who writes about African American Language, the words and inflections and mad multidimentional meanings of what some call Spoken Soul. She has helped me a great deal out here. Dr. Wendy Barker has been way cool to me, too. She's my creative writing teacher and she brought cool peeps to town like Kimiko Hahn and Benjamin Saenz. Her support has meant a lot this semester. And I am always thankful to the Hispanic Leadership Program, the folks who fund my crazy ass. Furthermore, I couldn't be doing all this without Vincent, my patient and generous husband.

But understand, this experience has really broken my heart, too. I am discovering so many things that I was not taught in school. I'm looking at stuff in new ways and exploring my heart and DNA in ways that connect me to the earth so deeply. I am so grateful for this opportunity. So you can understand how hard it must be when two out of the three Latino professors who I've taken here have deemed my work unsatisfactory at one point or another. I was so excited about coming down here. I thought, "Whoohoo! I'm studying with MI GENTE!" I've quickly found out that some of the people down here who I felt connected to do not feel connected to me or my ideas. Well, that's not exactly right. They like my ideas but only if they are spoken by someone other than me. At least that is what it seems like. Perhaps I am just too sensitive a person.

So, this semester I've been working on a paper about how the Caribs have been represented in formal correspondence. I cried when I found some of the documents that I cite in this text. I cried because I had never seen any documentation about this part of my ancestry before. However, those tears of joy have been truncated by tears of misery because apparently my scholarship is not up to par, according to one professor. Fine. So maybe I'm not a scholar, but maybe my work can be useful to someone. I'm posting the paper here. It is very long but maybe you'll have time to read it. It connects the indigenous populations and African populations of the Caribbean and calls for a unity between peoples who were separated by the colonizers different languages. People in the Caribbean have always intermingled but colonization separated the people into different linguistic groups, color categories and unspecific names. The letters I examine show the resistance to this separation that has always been present. It also calls out the racist depiction of the Caribs in "Pirates of the Caribbean." I hope you can see some use for it. (Sorry about the screwy formatting.)

Grisel Y. Acosta
Postcolonial Theory
Essay – 11/20/07

“It’s Just a Movie” or It’s Unjust Propaganda: Carib Revolt Represented by Colonial and Corporate Correspondence

Obscured History: We Cannot Know Ourselves If We are Not Shown Ourselves

My earliest memories of my extended family members in Colombia were very confusing to me. I have cousins who look like Americanos (White), others who look like Negros, and still others who look like they might be from the Middle East. In school, information was not provided to explain this mix. My history classes gave me a couple of paragraphs about the Alamo and another paragraph about the Bay of Pigs. In college, I took a Caribbean studies class to learn about my history; it was disappointing because I did not learn much about the different populations that were present in the Caribbean. When I went back to school for my Masters in Education, there were no Latino professors to learn from. I, then, tried to learn about my ancestry through literature and other creative works. I’ve obtained bits and pieces of information about my ancestry – about myself – through random conversations that I’ve had with people. This type of dialogue is not enough to sustain a clear identity for the mass of people of Caribbean origins that exist in the Americas, so we end up having a population that knows very little about its past. This leaves one wondering where one comes from and who in one’s past contributed to what. I see the same frustration in the eyes of my Latino students, many of whom do not know their own indigenous and/or African roots. The depiction of Latinos in popular culture is one of a monolithic raza and an explanation of how that race was formed is rarely provided. My decision to return to graduate school is influenced by the desire to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle. Because I am a Caribbean Latino, this is a multicultural endeavor. For this study, I focus on the Carib population – one that is severely neglected in history books – and I have found that even if one tries to focus on one population in the Caribbean region, the direction will nonetheless point towards connections to other populations.

The Search Begins: Anthropologists , Correspondence and Theoretical Framework

Looking for my past is not an easy endeavor. Much of it is buried under jungle or has been kept confined within the halls of the privileged class that tried to dominate my ancestors during colonization. It is clear by the sheer difficulty of finding information about the populations in the Caribbean that persons in power find it dangerous for Caribbean descendants to know their history. Furthermore, the information that is available is largely written by English, French and Spanish White men. Fortunately, I have found a format that allows the voice of the Carib population to be heard – and it also reveals the condescension of the colonizer which is often hidden under the guise of authority in anthropological studies. I have found that letters (actual and fictionalized) on behalf of the Taíno/Arawak/Carib/Garifuna population are forms of dialogue that formulate an easily understood postcolonial timeline, something which is simply not available in most of the schools where Caribbean Latino students reside. Furthermore, the rhetoric in the letters can be examined for the “Carib/Garifuna, etc.” palimpsest. In this case, the palimpsest does not just have multiple meanings; multiple words are also used interchangeably. That is, words like Carib, Garifuna, Taíno, and others, are used interchangeably to point to the population that mixed before colonization, as attacked during colonization and has reconnected after colonization. The palimpsest reveals these intentions about the original colonizers and it connects the United States to being a colonizing force by highlighting its similar behavior. The Carib palimpsest is no longer of interest to the original colonizers. Instead, its layers are now being manipulated by the United States, despite the common assumption that the U.S. is not a colonizing force. The letters reveal that the U.S. continues the Carib/Garifuna colonization in terms of intellectual property. The words “Carib/Garifuna” and connected terms are used as intellectual property that is off-limits to the people represented by the words themselves. Some community leaders (in the letters) have attempted to create a space for credible Carib/Garifuna intellectual property, but the ownership of this space is under attack within the letters I examine. In effect, even though the actual Carib population is next to extinct, the idea of the Carib and what it represents is still under the auspices of colonization, which implies that the fighting Carib are still very much alive.

I examine the letters using the principles behind Max Weber’s social stratification theory, Noam Chomsky’s propaganda theory, and critical race theory (as it is applied to education by Ladson-Billings and Tate). I use a hybrid of social stratification theory and critical race theory to examine how the idea of the indigenous Carib has been stratified within history. Max Weber stated that, “The primary significance of a positively privileged property class lies in the following facts:…[t]hey may control the opportunities of pursuing a systematic monopoly policy….[t]hey may monopolize opportunities for the accumulation of property through unconsumed surpluses….[t]hey may monopolize the privileges of socially advantageous kinds of education….” (425). I use these statements in order to analyze how the privileged property class has monopolized the intellectual property of the Caribs and their descendants. Not only is it currently difficult to find any information about my ancestors, but when information is provided about the Caribs/Taínos/Garifuna, it is either controlled by the privileged class and therefore distorted, or it is presented as a direct response to the monopoly that must be fought. Ladson-Billings and Tate, in “Toward a Critical Race Theory of Education,” claim that schoolchildren of color have not been given access to intellectual property that would further their understanding of themselves and of the world. They state, “curriculum represents a form of ‘intellectual property.’ The quality and quantity of the curriculum varies with the ‘property values’ of the school” (54). I apply this idea to the Carib/Garifuna race. It has not been allowed the right to present its intellectual property – facts about its history – in a meaningful manner. Furthermore, its intellectual property has been deliberately stolen and distorted in order to influence the actions of future generations, much like land is stolen in the process of colonization. That is, without access to the correct and accurate intellectual property, there is no way that anyone – Carib or non-Carib – can make informed decisions about the current or future Caribbean region and population. That action is a colonization of this intellectual property, a siege of history and of the future. I use Chomsky’s propaganda theory in order to examine how Carib descendants and their supporters must work within the confines of propaganda. The propaganda “filters” include: ownership, or proof that the media outlet is a large, moneyed organization, such as a monarchy or a corporation; funding, or proof that the entity is indebted to funders above any other persons affected by its policy; sourcing, or proof that the entity has a monopoly of information and can pick and choose what information to release (usually information that will not harm the entity); flak, proof that the entity has the power to chastise or ignore anyone who questions it; and anti-ideologies, or proof that the entity will exploit public fears, whether real or imagined (“Propaganda Model”). I argue that the letters create a framework for propaganda and imply the authority of the colonizers and the weakness of the Carib population.

My guiding question asks how representations of Carib correspondence present aspects of the colonization of intellectual property and how these letters might be used in the classroom in order to counteract propaganda. My thesis is that through the representation of Carib correspondence, we can see a timeline of the colonization of intellectual property and this can be used within classrooms to address multiculturalism, critical media studies and historical discrepancies within Caribbean history.

A Correspondence with the Past: Fiction Is Better Than Fact

The first letter I am looking at is actually a representation of a letter. That is, it is a letter represented in a fictional story. Author Haydée Reichard de Cancio takes bits and pieces from history and constructs a story around a letter from “The King” to Chief Agueybana (1-3). Agueybana, which means “the large sun,” was the chief of the Guaynia village in Puerto Rico during the late 1400s and early 1500s (Pérez). Although the story does not include the name of the king of Spain at the time – it is left out of the letter – Ferdinand II was ruler in 1512, which is the year the letter is dated. The story begins with Agueybana fretting over how the conquistadores have treated his people. Words like Yucayeque, batey, and Areyto are used by the Chief as he painfully recalls how the center of town once belonged to the indigenous population, and how it now belongs to the Spaniards. The author writes Agueybana’s thoughts:
“What will become of my people…! We cannot go on like this; we are nobody; day after day the white men abuse us and draw us apart from each other…. A metallic sound brought him back to reality” (1). Agueybana is visited by Don Cristobal, who brings him the letter from the King. Reichard de Cancio could be referring to the Don Cristobal Sotomayor who founded a sector by the town of Aguada between 1508 and 1510 (Vasquez). She is clearly giving the reader a history lesson. This history lesson is a direct response to what a critical race theory reading reveals.

The legend of Agueybana is not taught in schools and this is to keep those of us who have indigenous blood ignorant as to the legitimate resistance that the Caribs met the conquistadores with. Reichard de Cancio is also responding to the propagandistic tools that are used in colonization. She sets up the reader with vital information about Agueybana and his people before the letter is read so that the reader will understand what a farce the “business letter” is. Some might assume a business letter to be a necessary tool to conduct important transactions, but before the colonists arrived in the Americas, such transactions were done by word of mouth. The business letter is a tool of propaganda in that it is used to make certain words from certain people seem more powerful, credible and truthful than they really are. Reichard de Cancio is poking at the usefulness of this tool while at the same time leading the reader to an important name in history. All of this is done to address the stratification of the Carib population and its descendants.

The story continues as Don Cristobal reads the letter to Agueybana; he imagines that the Chief cannot comprehend what the letter even is. The letter is from Tordesillas. This invokes the 1494 Treaty of Tordesillas, which gave Spain control of lands west of the 50 degree West meridian and Portugal control of lands east of the meridian (de la Cova). Barely a paragraph long, the letter tells Agueybana that the King is sending a couple of men in his service and Agueybana is to learn from them and do as they say. The scroll is then handed to the Chief. He quickly goes to the bonfire at the end of the town’s center and throws the scroll in the fire. An onlooker asks Agueybana what he is doing and he replies, “Burning a dry leaf from tree that is almost dead” (2). Then he thinks to himself, “We know now that they are not gods. Soon we will get rid of them….” (3). Upon reading this, one might assume that this story is a sad tale about how the Chief could not foresee how powerful the colonizers would be and how he would soon be destroyed. In actuality, he does foresee, upon noticing that the colonizer’s documents can be destroyed without reproach, that the indigenous population can destroy its foe. If we look back to the Villa de Sotomayor, history shows that this town was destroyed 1511, in an uprising by the indigenous population. Uprisings continued for years. A monastery was built there five years later and was then destroyed twelve years later in another indigenous attack (Vasquez). Reichard de Cancio is pointing out that the indigenous populations of the Caribbean fought and were quite brave, despite the common depiction that there was a quick genocide due to Spanish swords, guns and disease. She is attempting to address the palimpsests that have been created for the words “Carib,” “Caribbean indian,” and “Taínos.” She is remembering what has been Whited out.

Currently, the Latino Caribbean writer trend is to use the palimpsest form to expand notions of memory. Myrna García-Calderón states, in Current Approaches to Hispanic Caribbean Writing: An Overview, that, “Contemporary Hispanic Caribbean literature…has been particularly interested in exploring multiple notions of memory” which include the “rethinking of historical memory” and “the notion of cultural memory, often opposed to official history and canonical views of studying the past” (65). García-Calderon asks about the subaltern’s ability to voice alternative ideas about history and how this rearticulates memory (66). Reichard de Cancio uses facts that can direct readers to important points in history, but then she also uses fiction for, I would argue, two reasons. First, she must disguise her story as a simple story of failure. The story was published in the United States and in the U.S., the story of the Caribbean Latino is usually one of failure unless his/her roots are decidedly European. This is a form of propaganda that Latinos must assume as a sort of “disguise.” Any quick reading of this story will show the failure of an indigenous community to plan for its success, something that is acceptable to those in power in the U.S. A deeper reading that connects to the history between the lines is what reveals the memoria that the author intends to share. The reader of this tale, if he/she is uneducated about Carib history, simply will not know what is really going on in the story. S/he must do his/her homework. One can look at this as a form of signifying, as explained by Henry Louis Gates. In signifying, there are two meanings for two audiences. The uninformed White and/or mimic audience will not see the history in the tale, but the population that the story is truly meant for will understand the map to Carib roots that the tale sketches out. Second, she also uses fiction so that her words will not be scrutinized in the same way factual texts might be scrutinized. This way, the history is, indeed, in her hands. This creates ownership of the material, which, ironically, does not exist for Caribbean Latinos when it comes to the recorded factual history of the region. Most of the factual texts have been written by the English or the Spanish colonizers. One can also point to Chela Sandoval’s differential consciousness when looking at what Reichard de Cancio is doing. According to Sandoval, “practitioners of the differential mode of social movement develop and mobilize identity as political tactic in order to renegotiate power: identity is both disguised and not disguised in a form of differential consciousness that thrives on oscillation. The positional subject is not living a lie, then, but rather a disguise” (145). Reichard de Cancio is disguising the facts within a simple-minded tale and disguising herself as a children’s storyteller when, in fact, she is a historian.
Of course, there are limits to this. For example, if this were used as a history lesson in a classroom, not every teacher would even know that the story is based on fact. It is presented in a way that makes the tale appear mythological and mystical. Furthermore, it is difficult to understand, just by what is in the story, that Agueybana went on to be a great leader. The short story would have to be accompanied by factual information, much of which is not readily available. What could also happen is that it could open up the idea to fictionalizing history, which is already done in terrible ways by persons such as Oliver Stone, who has no problem creating confusing and lie-filled filmic histories about important events that need to be presented truthfully. This tale of Agueybana could open up the door to less accurate fictionalized depictions that keep Caribs/Taínos in the same intellectual property deprived boat. The hope is that Reichard de Cancio can be a historian that is able to share the best pieces of information with Carib descendants in order to create an informed population of people who know what their ancestors did.

Official Letters: One Voice Is More Official Than Another

The next letters I examine are “factual” ones. The first is titled “Waitukubuli Kalinago petition of 10 August, 1930,” (see Appendix A) and the second is titled, “Douglas Taylor to Noel Teulon Porter, 25 September, 1930” (Campbell 7-9). These letters document the struggle for survival by the Carib population in Dominica roughly 400 years after the letter in Reichard de Cancio’s work is dated. “Thomas John, Chief of the Caribs, and all the Caribs of Dominica” demand from King George V a “restoration of our ancient rules and privileges” (7). The letter also states that previous letters were sent but went unanswered and that the Carib population, while having been cooperative, has been reduced to a state of poverty and possible extinction. Here is an excerpt:

“WE, Thomas John, Chief of the Caribs, and all the Caribs of Dominica greet and
express their loyalty to His Most Gracious Majesty George V, King of Great Britain,
of Ireland and the Dominions and Colonies over Seas, Emperor of India, and humbly
submit to His Majesty's Gracious consideration this our petition.
WE beg His Majesty to grant us:-
1. The restoration of our ancient rules of privileges, where perpetual continuance was
graciously accorded us by Her late lamented Majesty Queen Victoria and which have
unlawfully and unjustifiably been taken away from us since the year 1926” (Campbell 7).

Stratification is clearly demonstrated here and John is also forced to work under the rules of stereotypical propaganda. The letter format is simply ridiculous when addressing such rights issues; it forces moral issues to be dealt with in a format that was originally used in the context of theft and pillaging. That is, the letter has traditionally been used by the colonizers to let indigenous populations know that they no longer own their land, for example. Rolena Adorno cites Guaman Poma’s frustration with colonial rhetorical forms in “From Story to Sermon,” and demonstrates the usefulness of the sermon as a cross-cultural tool (57). The colonial letter was useful to the colonists in that it presented an authoritative, factual, faceless entity on the side of the colonial force. In this case, the Caribs are attempting to use the letter for their own means, but this cannot entirely work because the letter has already been established as a tool of propaganda. The Caribs are attempting to work within a differential consciousness, what Chela Sandoval calls a “weaving structure [that] permit[s] alliances between varying oppositional ideologies” (153). The Caribs are mimicking the colonial business letter while at the same time seeking power for themselves. The Caribs have taken on the colonizer’s language and writing format – something that Agueybana did not do, as he did not respond to correspondence with words/letters but with fire. Furthermore, the Caribs are implying that they have cooperated with the British and are in need of their help, which makes the indigenous population sound passive and somewhat weak. This creates more dimensions in the Carib palimpsest because now we have the idea of passivity counteracting the idea of the fierce and uprising-prone Carib. This is a stereotype the Caribs have assumed in order to bargain with the colonizers. It is their disguise. The Caribs clearly know that the letter format is weak and this is underlined by the fact that the King refuses to acknowledge their letters. In other words, the colonizers try to maintain power by refusing to acknowledge a letter as legitimate. This works for them in one sense, but it also works to undermine the letter format itself. It doesn’t show the colonizers as reasonable people who simply don’t acknowledge unreasonable correspondence; it shows the colonizers as persons who must withdraw in order to “win” this sort of attack. The only option left to the colonizer is to give up because if they respond in writing – within their own form of propaganda – they know the writing will show them to be the imperialists that they are. The propaganda meant to make the colonizer look strong is starting to work against the colonizer. It shows a repeated pattern of lying, manipulation, theft, greed and bigotry. The colonizer has to stop writing letters lest he incriminate himself.

The “Douglas Taylor” (see Appendix B) letter adds even more to this notion. Douglas Taylor appears to be an advocate for the Carib population in his letter to Porter, as he asks that help be given to preserve the Carib race. He mentions how the Caribs live on a reservation – a connection to other indigenous populations in the Northern Americas – and that they are “quite pure” (8). Here is a section of that text:

“The Caribs themselves, of whom there must be at least 250 quite pure (the chief himself
puts it at 400 out of a total of 500, but I think he is optimistic) are small and wiry, the
women sturdy and well formed; olive to light copper skin though which the blood shews
red, high cheek bones, slightly slanting eyes, broad flat foreheads with tendency to recede towards the top, coarse black straight hair, hands and feet small, the latter with very high
arches. A peculiarity is that men and women have little or no hair on the face and body.
In character, they are much less exhuberant [sic] than the blacks, almost melancholic, soft
voiced and extremely shy with strangers. Their language is almost extinct, only the old
men remember some of it, the current language is Creole French and of course the young
ones learn a certain amount of English in school. The rest of the population of the island,
black and white, look upon the Caribs much as we look upon the gypsies [emphasis added]
- as a lazy good for nothing lot. In point of fact they are not lazy but as long as they stay on
the reserve, they can only work for themselves. I think this suits their temperament best,
and it is sure that if they went to work on the big plantations the race in it’s pure form would soon be extinct. At it is, many of the girls leave to marry half-caste or niggers, and the chief himself has a pretty half Carib wife” (8).

He implies that the purity is the reason why they are deserving of attention. This is demonstrated when he tries to create sympathy by stating that “the government…is trying to starve them into absorption [sic] with the nigger population” (9). If we connect this to the earlier statement that, “In character, they are much less exhuberant [sic] than the blacks” (8), it becomes clear that Taylor is implying that Black Caribs are much more likely to participate in an uprising, therefore it makes sense to help the “pure” Caribs. Again, the idea of the Carib is problematic because we know that earlier uprisings took place among “purer” Carib descendents. Furthermore, the idea of a “pure” Carib does not work, either. According to Walter E. Roth’s study of the indigenous populations of South America (which he connects to populations that traveled to the Lesser, Greater Antilles and Mexico), the Caribs had always mixed with other tribes such as the Warrau and Arawak/Taínos (107). In fact, he connects the Semis, or idols, used by the Arawak on the South American mainland to the Cemis or Chemin of the island Arawak and Caribs (168-169). The significance of this connection is that the mainland and island Caribs/Arawak were always in communication and there was always movement in and out of the lands. These people were connected before the colonizers separated them into different nations that were forced to communicate differently, through separations in language and/or culture. Therefore, Caribs have traditionally been multicultural, or mixed, and they have traditionally fought against enslavement. The “Douglas Taylor” letter, as seen here, is clearly being used as a tool of propaganda because it sets forth an image of the Carib population that is false and it seeks to spread that image far and wide. It perpetuates the idea that certain Caribs are not connected, certain Caribs are prone to violence more than others (the darker they are, the more they may fight us), and that the letter format can be trusted as a tool of authority. Douglas Taylor does not attempt to corroborate what he believes with anyone else. He states it as fact and even expects investment to come based on his word. What is especially disturbing is that the Carib population is not only stratified in such writings but in this one, Douglas Taylor attempts to further stratify the population by separating it into different groups based on skin color. Furthermore, the Carib as a population that must be helped is reinforced once again. In the Reichard de Cancio story, the King is sending a magistrate to “help” the Carib/Taíno population; in the 1930 petition, the King is asked to help the Caribs; and here Douglas Taylor is asking a colleague to help the Caribs. Within all of these requests for help, the possibility of violence always looms although it is always implied that the violence will occur on the part of the Caribs. The Agueybana story (not the letter in the story) and the Carib-written letter are the places where the violence towards the Caribs is addressed and this is one way in which the Caribs have attempted to own their intellectual property in terms of their history.

Corporate Correspondence: The New Colonizers

Caribs have always fought for ownership of their land but the fight has changed. The difference of the fight in modern times is that now it is one of intellectual property and ownership of it. We see the Caribs fighting for ownership of how they are represented and the right to manipulate said representation to their benefit. The colonizers attempt to divide the population along racial lines, but the next letter shows how they fight that attempt, as well. Ben Palacio highlights a letter from Michael Polonio, President of the National Garifuna Council of Belize, to the CEO of the Walt Disney Corporation (see Appendix C). In the heading of the article, Palacio defines the population represented by Polonio as “Garifuna, garifuna, GARINAGU, garinagu, Kalipuna, Caribs, CARIBS, Seine Bight, An Indigenous Culture.” Here, many of the layers of this palimpsest are brought together. Now, the population is not just Carib, but it is Garifuna, or the mixture of Caribs with Africans. On the “Garifuna History” page of the Seine Bight website (a website dedicated to the village in Belize) where the letter is posted, the reader is informed that a population of shipwrecked Africans adopted the Arawak language and customs of the Caribs and mixed with the population, and the tribe later evolved into the Garifuna population. All of these cultures are connected as one and the Garifuna do not believe in separating them; all of the words refer to one indigenous population, as far as they are concerned. The palimpsest is given a complexity that Douglas Taylor completely missed. Taylor insisted on separating the Carib and Black Carib populations and viewing them as having different characteristics. The various colonizers in Europe – the French, the Dutch, the English, the Spanish – made agreements with each other to split the Caribbean lands and separate the people who were once unified. The different cultures and languages that exist there now are not an accident; it was planned so that the Caribs would not feel unified after a generation or two. This is something the Carib descendents are responding to. Jorge J. E. Gracia, in Individuation of Racial and Ethnic Groups, is also responding to the outdated desire of separating peoples who have shared history. He looks to W.E.B. Du Bois’ “familial-historical” view of race, which states that a race shares a history. This causes problems if we look at the history following the naming of the race because many people within a race will have different resulting histories. For example, if we say that a Latino is only someone who speaks Spanish, we are separating two populations of people who share a history, so that definition of individuation does not work. If we look at the history around the time the term was created, that can also cause problems because different people in different countries, for example, will have different histories. However, if we look at the history that leads up to the creation of the term, this is the shared history that connects the family tree best. In other words, “Latino” was not created before the Spaniards arrived in the Americas and it was not created for a long time after that, but the history that took place after 1492 is the shared history of Latinos that connects all of them, whether they speak Spanish or not. This is the argument that Gracia poses (78-100) and the Carib/Garífuna population is currently using a similar method to connect all indigenous peoples and their descendants in the Caribbean, regardless of any mixing that took place with Africans or Europeans. The Caribs are reconnecting and re-membering what was strategically disconnected and dissected by all the European nations that colonized the Caribbean. This can be seen in the aforementioned letter to Walt Disney.

In the letter to the unnamed Walt Disney CEO (which echoes the unnamed King in the Agueybana tale), Polonio calls the indigenous population shown in Pirates of the Caribbean 2 “Calinago” and terms them “ ancestors of the Caribs and Garifuna” and, in fact, equates the words Carib and Calinago at various points. Polonio is connecting the indigenous peoples of the Caribbean together because they are connected, as history shows. The population is multicultural and this view creates a clear timeline, in terms of colonization, and it connects the original colonization to the current corporate colonization of the Carib/Garifuna intellectual property. The Walt Disney CEO at the time of the letter was Michael Eisner, who had actually announced his resignation three days before the letter was dated (“Robert A. Iger Named Chief Executive Officer of the Walt Disney Company” ). Although, the resignation would not be effective until September 30th of that year, the letter – like the one sent by the Carib population of Dominica to King George V – was responded to by no one. The letter to Eisner asks the Walt Disney Corporation to change the script, which depits Caribs, or Calinago, as cannibals. It reminds Walt Disney Corp. that it claims to embody high business standards and integrity and then informs the corporation that there is no factual evidence proving that Caribs were cannibal. This excerpt addresses the idea of the cannibal:

“The myth about cannibalism was started because the Calinago were not intimidated by the European invaders and waged war in the defense of their territory and way of life. For 30 years they held back the British Army, the most modern fighting forces of the world at the time. After the eventual defeat the British suppressed and attempted to wipe the Calinago/Garifuna and their culture off the face of the earth following the conquest of the island of St. Vincent in 1796. Fortunately for mankind, our people and our culture have survived, against all odds, among the descendants of the Garinagu (the Black Caribs) who were forcibly exiled and abandoned on the mainland of Central America in 1797.

If the Walt Disney Corporation is indeed about integrity and truth, then we ask that you desist from filming this movie as currently scripted and that you hold honest, truthful, respectful and constructive consultations with the living descendants of the Calinago (Caribs) in Belize, Honduras, Nicaragua, St. Vincent (known as Yurumien in our language) and Dominica. Ours is a story of epic proportions that needs to be told and we would not mind collaborating with your company in honestly and truthfully relating the Calinago/Garifuna/Carib story” (Palacio).

A history lesson about the race is given, demonstrating that the Caribs and their descendents were simply protecting their families and land, and that this should be the reasoning behind any violent action that might be depicted by the Caribs in the film. The letter is signed by ambassadors and officials from Belize, Honduras, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, and Dominica. The Garifuna work within the confines of the colonialist letter dialogue, which places them within the confines of a propaganda-prone enterprise, as we have already established. In the end, the same script was used, but what is interesting to note is that the indigenous population shown in the film is depicted as Black Caribs, which echoes the ideas that Taylor had about the Black Caribs in the earlier letter. Again, the Caribs are the main course in the propaganda dish. They are depicted as the cannibalistic Black Caribs that eat people for no reason instead of being shown as strong people who have always tried to defend themselves – whether they were “pure,” whether they considered themselves Taíno or Garifuna, or whether they commiserated with African peoples. This letter, to a corporate entity – depicted as a “nameless” CEO like the King in the Agueybana tale – has taken up where the colonial correspondence left off. Chomsky’s propaganda theory applies here because not only are the Garifuna working within the colonialist enterprise of letter writing, but they are also forced to view themselves as cannibals in the film, anyway, even though they addressed the issue. The propaganda remains and this creates stratification in terms of intellectual property.

Stratification is seen in this last letter because the historical property of the Caribs is silenced, not valued and cast aside. The Carib population is placed on the outskirts of society by not being depicted properly and not being heard when it voices its ownership of the truth. Critical race theory also comes into play in that the Carib population is responding to this stratification by attempting to address the way the public is being educated – or miseducated – by the Walt Disney film. The Carib population and its descendents are attempting to claim their intellectual property as a response to racism and stratification. Furthermore, the Carib descendents are also attempting to lay claim to intellectual property that divides races instead of unifying them. This is a good tactic for this kind of fight. Walt Disney did not respond to the letter with another letter, a tactic we have seen before, because the company did not want to incriminate itself. Instead, the company responded by simply ignoring the issue. In effect, the lack of a response results in a failure on the part of Walt Disney, because even though the film came out unchanged, the letter by the Garifuna will always be there, poking a hole into the depiction of the Caribs. Ultimately, the palimpsest – the continuing change that occurs surrounding the word Carib and all of its subsets – speaks to the persistence of the Carib descendents. They were known as fighters when the area was first colonized and this fight is now being continued in the information age as a fight over intellectual property.

The palimpsest is a useful tool for the indigenous persons of Carib descent. It allows the Carib descendants to continually add to the definition of who they are, especially if it needs to respond to an inaccurate part of the palimpsest that has been contributed by colonizers. That is perhaps the most problematic part of the palimpsest. However, the use of this tool demonstrates how comfortable the Carib descendents are with multiculturalism, as they use it to connect to the various indigenous populations surrounding the Caribbean Sea. Birgit Faber Morse, in The Salt River Site, St. Croix, at the Time of the Encounter, notes that Taino culture (or Arawak culture) can be seen in the ancient ball courts found on the islands of St. Croix and other Lesser Antilles (45), and Samuel M. Wilson, in Introduction to the Study of the Indigenous People of the Caribbean, shows in a migration map how indigenous populations from Central and South America continually traveled in the circle of the Caribbean Sea (2). These populations were the ancestors of the Caribs, Arawak, Taino, Warrau, and many others. The mixing was inevitable and this is influences the decision to linguistically connect all of these populations in the letter to the Walt Disney CEO. The multifaceted palimpsest is necessary for the Carib descendents, even though it is problematic because its form can also be used inappropriately by persons who do not identify with the culture. It is also problematic in terms of teaching the history, which may explain in part why most of my textbooks refused to tackle the subject. I do believe I have found some answers to the questions I had when I began this study, but I cannot say that I am happy to find that the Caribs and their descendents have a legacy of fighting to uphold, especially in terms of owning the rights to our history. I am proud of our love of multiculturalism, and I am proud of our desire to continue to speak out, but I find it shameful that the Spanish, the English and now the U.S. have all felt the need to silence this history and depict my ancestors as ignorant or barbaric. What these letters end up revealing is the barbarianism on the part of the Kings and, now, the equivalent CEO.

The Letters in the Classroom and Conclusion: “It’s Just a Movie!”

As a model on how to create an effective presentation, I used an excerpt of Pirates of the Caribbean II and presented the letter to Walt Disney to one of my composition classes. The students were very engaged in the presentation and were surprised to find out that anyone had written to the movie company about the film. Some of the responses included phrases like: “But the movie doesn’t specifically call the indigenous population Caribs”; “When I saw the movie, I wasn’t thinking of a specific place or specific people, so I would never associate the tribe in the film with Caribbean tribes”; and the inevitable, “What does it matter – it’s just a movie!” These responses were very interesting to me because I honestly didn’t expect them. I naively assumed that the students would have sympathy for the indigenous population that did not want to be depicted falsely. What this experience revealed to me, however, is that the students were completely unprepared to be sympathetic with the indigenous population because, even though the majority of the students were White, they had suffered from the lack of intellectual property, as well. Not only do the Caribs suffer from not having control over their own intellectual property, but the bourgeois class also suffers from not having access to information that the privileged class controls. Middle class students have no idea what has happened in the Americas and they do not see why they need to know because they are not hungry, they do not lack for education, and they have access to most things necessary for life. They don’t even need to think outside of their own virtual space. Note the student who, despite the location in the title of the film, did not think of the landscape in the movie as a real place with real people.

One student did pose the idea that perhaps if we knew more about the population, if we saw Caribs in our everyday life, then maybe we would care more. I mentioned that their professor has Carib blood, as does J.Lo, numerous baseball players, a former CEO of Coca-Cola, etc. This was quite uncomfortable for the students because they were now questioning what they had been taught. One student said, “We don’t want to know, we don’t need to know, even if words like ‘barbacoa/barbecue’ come from that culture, it’s not like it’s Latin.” In other words, the culture of a land that is thousands of miles away is valued more than a land that is nearby and affects us each day. Despite the welcome frustration that was a result of this presentation, when the students had to create their own presentations, I saw the effects of the original model. One group of students looked at Disney’s “Pocahontas” alongside the diary entries of John Smith and highlighted the extreme differences in the depiction of the stories. Another group of students looked at how little people (persons with dwarfism) are depicted in film and how they are treated in everyday life; one student (the one who said “we don’t need to know”) openly admitted that his feelings about little people had changed from when he started and the project really convinced him of their contributions to society. I was shocked. Another group analyzed junk news and the more important news items that are obscured by stories about Brangelina, for example. I don’t think I need to convince anyone that this type of analysis is critical in the classroom. Bringing in the Carib letters can not only contribute to Carib descendants knowing about their history and maintaining the rights to their intellectual property, but it can also contribute to non-Carib descendants looking at information in an critical way which is currently discouraged within traditional media.

This project has been one of the most liberating experiences for me. I simply never had access to such documents. To be able to see Carib letters and interpret fictionalized Carib tales that depict the colonial correspondence has allowed me to understand part of my history, part of myself, and that is so necessary for someone to feel whole. I don’t know if anyone who has always had access to documents about his/her own history can possibly understand what it feels like to be able to interact with the past in this way. However, the fact remains that the letters themselves are written under the auspices of propaganda and while they do record the fight for actual property and intellectual property, there are still inaccuracies that can occur within the official letter system. This is why the letters should not be taken alone and fictionalized accounts – or stories and other creative works – should be carefully considered, too. Who is writing these accounts will always affect the accuracy. Reichard de Cancio had the idea to share history that isn’t often taught, but if the Carib story does eventually become popular beyond what is depicted in false, cannibalistic scenes, then there will be a greater risk. Oftentimes, stories about the Civil Rights Movement depict sympathetic White men who help the African American community, for example. Once the story is in the hands of the imperial force – and the imperial force wants to put the spotlight on the “real” story – there is a greater chance for subtler propaganda. Pirates of the Caribbean II has blatant propaganda about Caribs. If a future “truthful account” about the Caribs should be created, will the protagonist of the story be a sympathetic Spaniard? Will the Caribs be portrayed as ruthlessly violent and misogynistic, even indulgent, the way the Persians are portrayed in 300? This type of propaganda, which is far more subtle and far more effective, is what corporations have a stronghold on through their acquisitions of publishing companies and media giants. I want the Carib history to be presented, but owning that intellectual property is key. In the wrong hands, it’s just another myth that reminds the imperial force that it is the most civilized and brilliant. This project has shown me that is not the case and I find myself happy to have learned a bit about my ancestry, even if it did have to be through the frame of the colonial letter.

Appendix A:
Waitukubuli Kalinago petition of 10 Aug. 1930

WE, Thomas John, Chief of the Caribs, and all the Caribs of Dominica greet and express their loyalty to His Most Gracious Majesty George V, King of Great Britain, of Ireland and the Dominions and Colonies over Seas, Emperor of India, and humbly submit to His Majesty's Gracious consideration this our petition.
WE beg His Majesty to grant us:-
1. The restoration of our ancient rules of privileges, where perpetual continuance was graciously accorded us by Her late lamented Majesty Queen Victoria and which have unlawfully and unjustifiably been taken away from us since the year 1926.
By our ancient rule and privileges, is meant that within the boundaries of the Carib territory the lawfully elected Carib Chief should have power to administer law and justice over the Carib people and that there should be not interference on the part of the British local authorities except at the Chief express request or at the majority of the Carib people MOREOVER, that the Carib people living peaceably in the Carib territory should never become liable to any forms of taxation, other than the duty of keeping open some part of the road within their territory, except by their majority consent or approval.
2. That the Government grant of ten shillings a month at present made to the Carib Chief be raised to a sum compatible with the upkeep of dignity and honour of his position.
WE would bring to His Majesty's notice that a protest and petition made by us some time ago [i.e. in September 1927] to His Majesty's Secretary of State has remained unanswered and unacknowledged.
FINALLY, we would submit to His Majesty's gracious consideration that we, the Carib people, have since the beginning of British rule in this island always lived as peaceable and loyal subjects of His Britannic Majesty, that since the beginning of recorded history these islands have always been our home, and that today, living on a small section of territory in this island we, the last of our race are, through lack of recognition, absence of means of communication and marketing, reduced to a state of poverty in which we can only face extinction, we are convinced that the submission of these facts will suffice to persuade His Majesty of the urgency of taking such measures as will ensure us, His Majesty's loyal Carib subjects, the proper respect, recognition and protection worthy of His Majesty's Government.
(signed Thomas John, Carib Chief)

Appendix B:
Douglas Taylor to Noel Teulon Porter, 25 Sept. 1930

Dear Noel,
I have just returned to France from the West Indies where I spent some time amongst the Caribs of Dominica (not to be confounded with the Dominican Republic or Santo Domingo). I am writing to you, as the only person I know interested in such matters, to ask if you would be willing to help me to preserve the Carib race, of whom only four to five hundred remain, and who are rapidly becoming extinct in the pure form owing to the local government’s trying to ride over the privileges accorded them by Queen Victoria.

Dominica is a island belonging to the British Leeward group, situated 15°N by 61°W between the French islands of Guadaloupe and Martinique, which I also visited. It is the most mountainous and the most wild of the Antilles, about 40 miles by 20, and the only place on earth where pure Carib blood survived. They probably owe this continued existence to the fact that there are no proper roads across the island, whose greater part is still uncultivated and covered with virgin forest.

The Caribs now live in a legally defined Reserve of ample dimensions on the windward and most savage part of the island, under the nominal rule of their Chief. There is no village as we understand it, the houses which are well built of hardwood in a style of their own raised on stakes, and scrupulously clean, being scattered over miles, each one being surrounded by plantations of coffee, cocoa, vanilla, nutmeg, breadfruit, tania, dachine, limes etc. and the whole intervening countryside being covered with bay trees. About then miles inland starts the forest, from which they get their hardwoods, seman, balata, ceder and gommier this latter being used for the making of the native boats, gommiers, which they sell for 25/- the current price at Fort de France [Martinique] being 18 pounds (a good boat takes several men several weeks to complete). This together with carib baskets and limes is their only way of getting money. The only means of communication with the port of Roseau is by sea, in these same gommiers, which means an absence of several days from the Reserve, and considerable danger in the channel of Martinique[.] Salybia, (the Carib Reserve) does not possess either doctor or priest the nearest being about 3 to four hours walk entailing the crossing of a river impossible in the heavy rains.
The Caribs themselves, of whom there must be at least 250 quite pure (the chief himself puts it at 400 out of a total of 500, but I think he is optimistic) are small and wiry, the women sturdy and well formed; olive to light copper skin though which the blood shews red, high cheek bones, slightly slanting eyes, broad flat foreheads with tendency to recede towards the top, coarse black straight hair, hands and feet small, the latter with very high arches. A peculiarity is that men and women have little or no hair on the face and body. In character, they are much less exhuberant [sic] than the blacks, almost melancholic, soft voiced and extremely shy with strangers. Their language is almost extinct, only the old men remember some of it, the current language is Creole French and of course the young ones learn a certain amount of English in school. The rest of the population of the island, black and white, look upon the Caribs much as we look upon the gypsies [emphasis added] - as a lazy good for nothing lot. In point of fact they are not lazy but as long as they stay on the reserve, they can only work for themselves. I think this suits their temperament best, and it is sure that if they went to work on the big plantations the race in it’s pure form would soon be extinct. At it is, many of the girls leave to marry half-caste or niggers, and the chief himself has a pretty half Carib wife.

They are at present very unhappy because the government, (the administrator is a man called Eliot) is trying to starve them into absorbtion [sic] with the nigger population. They want on the one hand to levy taxes on boats etc, and on the other hand to bring the Caribs under the jurisdiction of the local coloured magistrate in Rosalie – the nearest village out of the reserve. The shop keepers in Roseau, - a days journey by boat or though the jungle on foot, now refuse to buy their bay leaves, and give less and less for the baskets. A Carib basket is the local form of luggage throughout the West Indies; made to be carried on the head, it is about 3 ft. long and 1 1/2 broad by 3ft. tall, very light and waterproof, made of the bark of a tree called "la rouman" double lined, i.e. one basket made to line another wither [sic] plantain leaves between the two; the design is in black red brown and white. Each one takes about two days to make – after the preparing of the bark – and they sell if lucky, after carrying them to market, for 2/- a piece. Could they be sold in England in quantities to make export worth while?

I enclose a copy of a petition to the King written by the Carib chief. You will see that his complains are rather on the score of prosperity than health. But in my opinion one of the most important things is to preserve the health of the Carib infants a great many of whom suffer from mal-nutrition, which produces a disease called locally "chaws" and which results in a bleeding from the genital organs. Anthropologists and ethnologists like yourself would find a great many things to interest you among these people, and I think it is worth while doing something to ensure the continuation of the race.

Is it worth while sending this petition? Could a campaign be started in the Times (letters) or in some other papers? The chief’s idea is that if he came to Europe and could tell people about the Caribs he could raise enough to start a little local industry for the extraction of bay essence and bay rum. Or they might sell some produce in Europe.

Appendix C:
From: Michael Polonio - President, National Garifuna Council of Belize
To: Chief Executive Officer, The Walt Disney Company
Subject: Pirates of the Caribbean 2 and 3

The National Garifuna Council (NGC) is the legally constituted and recognized representative organization of the Garifuna people of Belize, who, along with other Garinagu in Honduras, Guatemala and Nicaragua, are direct descendants of the "Black Caribs" of St Vincent and the lesser Antilles as we are referred to in the English language. We are also, therefore, descendants of the Calinago, the people you call Caribs. It has been brought to our attention that the Walt Disney Company intends to film a movie called "The Pirates of the Caribbean" in which the Caribs or Calinago, the ancestors of theGarinagu (as we refer to ourselves in our language) are portrayed as cannibals. We understand that preparations are underway to commence filming in Dominica in April of this year.

We note on your website that Walt Disney has portrayed itself as a company which upholds the highest Business Standards and Ethics in the conduct of its affairs and, therefore, are at odds to understand why you are involved in the perpetuation of this brutal and unjust myth and wrongdoing against the Calinago (the Caribs) and their descendants. There is no credible scientific evidence or reliable report that the people in question were cannibals. Our Calinago ancestors were a warrior race who migrated to the lesser islands of the Caribbean from the Amazon region of South America and, as with any warrior race, they engaged in ritualistic practices to encourage fearlessness among warriors. They fought to the death to defend their islands against invaders in the colonial era which followed the arrival of Columbus to our shores, an unfortunate event that changed for the worst the natural evolution and development of indigenous societies of the world in the period that followed. The myth about cannibalism was started because the Calinago were not intimidated by the European invaders and waged war in the defense of their territory and way of life. For 30 years they held back the British Army, the most modern fighting forces of the world at the time. After the eventual defeat the British suppressed and attempted to wipe the Calinago/Garifuna and their culture off the face of the earth following the conquest of the island of St. Vincent in 1796. Fortunately for mankind, our people and our culture have survived, against all odds, among the descendants of the Garinagu (the Black Caribs) who were forcibly exiled and abandoned on the mainland of Central America in 1797.

If the Walt Disney Corporation is indeed about integrity and truth, then we ask that you desist from filming this movie as currently scripted and that you hold honest, truthful, respectful and constructive consultations with the living descendants of the Calinago (Caribs) in Belize, Honduras, Nicaragua, St. Vincent (known as Yurumien in our language) and Dominica. Ours is a story of epic proportions that needs to be told and we would not mind collaborating with your company in honestly and truthfully relating the Calinago/Garifuna/Carib story. In May, 2001, the importance of the Garifuna culture (the culture of the Garinagu) to mankind was recognized in the United Nations Proclamation of the Garifuna Language, Dance and Music as Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. Walt Disney would be making a mockery of that United Nations recognition with the filming and release of your movie portraying our ancestors as cannibals, the worst categorization and dehumanizing assertion that can be made against a proud people whose culture is a testament to good citizenship and independence of spirit.

The National Garifuna Council associates itself with the sentiments of Carib Chief Charles Williams of the Garifuna Territory of Dominica, who asserted that "our ancestors stood up against early European conquerors and because they stood up. We were labeled savages and cannibals up to today. This cannot be perpetuated in movies." We urge you, in the strongest possible terms, to reconsider your position.

The National Garifuna Council of Belize
Tel: 501-502-0639
Email: ngcbelize@btl.net
www.ngcbelize.org
cc: Honourable Said Musa, Prime Minister of Belize
Honourable Francis Fonseca, Minister of Attorney General and Minister Education and Culture - Government of Belize
Honourable Assad Shoman, Minister of Foreign Affairs - Government of Belize
His Excellency Russel Freeman, Ambassador, Embassy of the United States of America, Belize
Honourable Roosevelt Skerrit, Prime Minister, Commonwealth of Dominica
Honourable Ralph Gonsalves, Prime Minister, St. Vincent and the Grenadines
Chief Charles Williams, Carib Territory, Commonwealth of Dominica
Lic. Celeo Alvarez Casildo, Presidente ODECO, Honduras
Hon. René M. Baptiste -Minister of Tourism and Culture , St. Vincent & the Grenadines
Hon. Sylvia Flores - Minister of Human Development, Belize
Her Excellency Ms. Lisa Shoman, Belize Ambassador to U.S., Washington
His Excellency , Mr. Andy V. Palacio, Ambassador for Culture, Belize

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ImPOSTers, POPaganda and FREEkingdom

2007-10-01T09:23:00.000-05:00

Take a look at these envelopes. They look like any other mail one might get, but look a little closer. Do you recognize the faces? The first stamp is of Tony Clifton, a notorious character made famous by Andy Kaufman. The second is Ferdinand Demara, a dude who was famous for impersonating anyone from a lawyer to sherrif to a monk. What you may be asking yourself is why these folks have been honored by being placed on a couple of our United States stamps. Well, they haven't been honored that way, exactly. These are not real stamps. These are a couple of works of art in the collection called "ImPOSTers" by the Chicago street artist known as TEWZ. Tewz is known for the usual street art like spray can stuff, but he also teamed up with other artists to decorate the hideous boxes that hold our various daily papers and magazines. That was the MonsterBox project. However, Tewz has entered new territory with the pseudo-stamps. He has created art in an arena that was formerly determined by our government alone. How often do we get to choose who or what is on our stamps? I've read about votes on this or that stamp; most recently, folks got to decide on a Star Wars-themed stamp, but who got to propose the Star Wars theme to begin with? We have government-chosen art all around us (kind of like the force) but we don't really choose what that art will be. Tewz decided to see if he could make such a decision and I think he made quite a statement in that process.

But public art is not a new idea. People have been tagging since the beginning of time, as Toro so aptly puts in one of his poems: (to paraphrase) the first tagger was Cro-Magnon man. However, for some reason - I assume it is because people don't understand it - public art is often not seen as an art form at all. Vandalism is the word many people use for it. I understand that sentiment, especially as someone who, as a young girl, had to see her father paint over some tagging on the garage. Nonetheless, there are some really interesting things being done in terms of public art. Ron English is famous for his "illegal" billboards, many of which attacked big tobacco and, I believe, contributed to the stance we have on smoking today. He particularly went after the Joe Camel character and how it appealed to children; his public art campaign definitely contributed to the demise of that cartoon. A new version of a documentary that covers his guerilla billboard action goes into the reasons why he thinks public art is necessary. English, and other artists in the film, state that there is no real public space for art and commentary. In theory, we are supposed to have public spaces for our ideas to flourish, but in reality, high fees and connections are what determine whether someone is going to be able to contribute to the public arena.

The street art movement believes that art and commentary should be available to the larger public, both as viewers and participants. In other words, there should be a FREE KINGDOM available to the public. There should be a public domain where we FREAKS can say what we need to say and make the world a prettier place, a smarter place, a more informed place. There should be a FREEkingdom where new visuals and ideas can make statements that may not have crossed the larger public's collective mind. It is easy to say that artists should just work within the gallery system, but we need to ask ourselves how limited that gallery system is. Who controlls it? Who views art in these private spaces? Who decides what is worthy? There is a reason why artists like De La Vega, Keith Haring and Basquiat began with street art.

Latino muralists have beautified ugly buildings; graffiti artists beautified trains and buildings with spray can art; Ron English questions our moral decisions with guerilla billboards; and TEWZ has entered a new arena within our postal system. Here are some other random street artists and some around the world. Look at the art in Tokyo. It looks like vandalism, perhaps, but aren't there works that cause you to think? Would these works have the same effect if they were in a private, sterile space? What happens when these works interact with the actual public?

I remember looking at the graffiti murals when I was taking the Blue Line home from school; I was always excited when the subway came up into the El part of the line, right by Damen Avenue in Chicago. There was a strip of art that made my skin get goose bumps every time I saw it. Why? I'm not sure I understand. Perhaps it made me feel like I was having a conversation with someone who I didn't know. Perhaps it was excited to have a gallery that was controlled by the public. Perhaps the work was just beautiful. Perhaps the work depicted my reality more than the work in the Art Institute. I'm not knocking the Art Institute - Chagall's blue stained glass windows are a part of me forever (the link doesn't do them justice; they are immense) - but street art is something that feels like home. It feels like it is mine.

Street art isn't anything new, hence the wiki-entry, but it is an idea that demands new thought. Just like Andy Kaufman tried to push the limits of entertainment, street art is trying to expand the the limits of the artistic world. I think Tewz has pushed us to think about postage art, something that we have to pay for all the time(!).

Where else might we squeeze some innovative thought in?

Killer Instincts

2007-08-22T10:32:00.000-05:00

Yesterday the European Union issued a statement urging my current home state to halt executions because it is about to top off at 400. Texas has more executions under its Lone Star belt buckle than many other states combined. I've been thinking about this a lot because a San Antonio native, Kenneth Foster, is set to be executed even though he has never killed anyone in his life. There's a law that says that if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time, a jury of your peers can say you were guilty of the murder someone else committed. That's what happened to Foster. He was in the car waiting for his friend, heard gun shots, wanted to drive off, but then didn't drive off because another friend in the car told him not to. It has been established that Kenneth had no desire to murder anyone but because his friend did, he's going to be killed.

The Texas news is so sympathetic (read: sarcasm). Despite that, people all over the world are protesting. Yesterday, thousands in Austin, sent a message to the State Capitol (where Dubuya himself once snorted a few lines). This article demonstrates a bit of that sympathy. I think it is quite interesting that the EU has taken interest in our murderous rampage in Texas/the U.S. Or is it exactly a murderous rampage? Are our killer instincts levelling everyone in our path or are we more selective?

It seems that the death penalty doesn't exactly apply to everyone, does it? This article came out about a week ago. Let's see, now...Foster didn't kill anyone, yet we're killing him. Mary Winkler did kill someone, yet she has gone free in less than a year. Interesting. What's the difference? Oh, she had post traumatic stress disorder...from trauma experienced as a child...and the trauma manifested itself when she became an adult...so she killed her husband...and was cured in about a couple of months. Yes, that makes sense! No? Well, what else could explain why we're killing Foster and not Winkler? I'll let you be the judge. Maybe Foster stands more of a chance with you as the judge. I know if I were the judge I would have decided that anyone who hasn't killed, can't be killed. He may need to be locked up because he was involved somehow, but if he didn't kill anyone, there isn't any reason to kill 'em. I know if I were the judge in the Winkler case I'd remind Winkler that a lot of us - especially women - have experienced trauma in our youth, severe hope-killing trauma, but once we become adults it is our responsibility to get help so we don't kill our minister husbands. This woman had THREE KIDS. If they grow up and murder their spouses, will they also claim post traumatic stress disorder because their mama was a crazy woman?

We all have killer instincts. It is the reason why we eat. We want to survive. We kill plants (veggies, paper, etc.), we kill organisms in our water, we kill animals if we aren't vegan. And yes, sometimes we decide, if only in our minds, that someone's life just isn't worth it. The problem is when we decide whether someone's life is worth it based on something other than the survival instinct. It is clear that in this country - especially in Texas - we have decided that poor Black men just aren't worth it, even if they aren't guilty of murder. White, middle class women, even if they are proven murderers, are apparently worth it. This is who we're choosing to live with.

This is who we're choosing to live with.

My killer instinct once said to me, "Don't hurt 'em unless they are coming at you." I've taught behavior disorder kids in the Bronx and kids with an enormous sense of entitlement in the suburbs, and I have yet to hurt any of 'em. If you meet people where they're at, they don't come at you with bad energy...usually. But our court system.... They are coming at me. They are coming at all of us with racist, classist, blatant murder.

It makes me sick. It makes me sick because I am starting to wonder if I should change my killer instinct. Aw, I'm a lover, as the cliche' goes, but I am sharpening my pen. The fountain of my eyes is shooting bullets. I am ready to level those in my path to JUSTICIA. My husband says "those people won't understand anything but a noose around their necks." I hope there is some other way. I hope I can draw that noose, make it tight like my writing and make it sting like regret. I hope.

(P.S. There is also a Kenneth Foster Yahoo!Group - join to get updates.)

Art, City Planning, and Your Dreams

2007-08-01T16:50:00.000-05:00

Your dreams are shaped by your environment.

I've always been well aware of the effect nature can have on a person. Not only have I seen a sense of calm and understanding in students who have had the opportunity to travel outside of the concrete heat, but I experienced the change in myself, firsthand, every summer when I spent my time staring at the stars and befriending trees in the middle of Nowhere, Michigan. Luckily, I also grew up in Chicago where past city landscape architect Jens Jensen ensured that the city would have a certain amount of greenspace. Chicago's past and present mayors have also had a good relationship with the arts (the city assumes a place for arts and education!), so free and public works of art were always part of my day as I traveled to school through the city. Yes, Mayor Daley did ban and whitewash (no pun intended) some of the coolest spray can murals that sprinkled my El travels with delight - I'm still not quite over that - but at least there were other kinds of art everywhere and plenty of art programs for kids like me (the link shows how the graffiti evolved from the early 80s to the present). Heck, I even got to paint with Keith Haring himself! I can say I collaborated with ol' boy on a big ass mural - yeah, dat's right.

This is why when Vincent and I had the opportunity to drive to Houston this July (the only "vacation" we could afford), our little four-day excursion turned out to be one of the most pleasant trips I've ever taken, despite hurricane-like winds and rain. As soon as we hit the city limits, I noticed that there was an abundance of little radio stations at the low end of FM. I ended up falling in love with KTRU. I heard hip hop, old 80s alternative, world music, new indie music I'll probably never hear again, an hour dedicated to music that little kids would like (!) - KTRU is awesome! I thought college stations had pretty much disappeared and this blessing made me realize that some of 'em still exist out there, but you will likely run into them only if you are in a major city. In fact, there is a college station in San Antonio that is my favorite...at least I THOUGHT it was a San Antonio station. I recently found out that it is actually an Austin station that has a strong enough signal to reach San Antonio. All the other stations in San Antonio are very hard rock, squeaky clean country or Tejano. Not a lot of options, but I digress.

HOUSTON. There is art everywhere in Houston. We not only heard it in the music stations but we also tasted it in the food. We had Eggs Orleans, a cajun crabcake take on Eggs Benedict, at Cafe Artiste; we shared a fresh and innovative yet traditional Indian plate of seasoned meats at Indika on Westheimer; and watched folks dance and scream "Oopaah!" at a Mediterranean restaurant we just happened upon and I just know I'll never remember the name.

But that was just the fuel. Our legs were energized to check out a bunch of Houston art and boy was it freaky. The Rothko Chapel is well-suited for all sorts of Goth occasions. Be sure to bring your black lipstick and pessimism. I really liked it! The Byzantine Chapel, which was remade with pieces of the original, is a marriage of cool, modern frosted glass and old traditions from one of the cradles of civilization. What was really the joint was the Menil Museum, which houses B.C. stuff like old Alaskan prints, pillars from Egypt and gold jewelry from South and Central America. But it doesn't stop there. It takes you into modern times with collections from the impressionists, the surrealists (stuff they owned - like a weird iron maiden suit!), and pop artists. A lot of the stuff I saw at the Menil I had studied when I was in art school. It is amazing that they have all this art in one place. Makes you wonder how much cash funds it all, huh? That answer is easy: tons.

But before I move onto that point, I want you to know a couple of other things about the art in Houston. First of all, there's a bunch of public art out in the open, too. The Menil has a sculpture garden but you can find outdoor art all over the city. Hence, the opening photo of the essay. You see me leaning on a sculpture by Jean DuBuffet that sits in the center of downtown Houston (Chicago also has a DuBuffet). We were walking back to our hotel from the Mets-Astros game (the one that lasted 17 innings - and the Mets won!) and Vincent wanted to record the trippy art. You can see the new tattoo on my left arm, although not that well. We have a cheap camera. Anyway, walking around allows a person to interact with art in Houston. As it should be. The second important point is that there is much money in Houston for such endeavors. Our friend and colleague, Leslie, moved to Houston before we moved to San Anto because she was offered a residency at the Museum of Fine Art - Houston. The competitive market in New York, where we all met, didn't allow for the same opportunities that we've all had here in Texas. But, as you may have noticed by now, not all Texas cities or U.S. cities are planned in the same way.

I find Houston and Chicago to be very similar. They have large African American, Asian and Latino populations. These cities are cosmopolitan. Both of the cities have a lot of money, too. With money comes a certain amount of philanthropy and culture. There are plenty of wealthy people who think it is important to have a variety of artistic choices in the city, in addition to green space and good places to eat. Unlike fast-paced New York, however, Houston and Chicago are much more family-oriented, in the traditional sense. The point I am trying to carve and shape here is that Houston and Chicago are really awesome cities in that they have a variety of music, food, art and people, and there are well-funded programs that support creative thinking. This isn't something that just happened. It was planned.

How to plan a city takes a lot of thought, naturally, and in this article (paragraph 11) it is argued that Houston and Chicago have "similar patterns of land use" but Chicago's zoning laws have created slums and higher housing costs. This site gives a list of "famous" urban planners and Chicago figures prominently in the history of the profession. This library's archives have a document that explains Chicago's "world-wide influence" on city planning. It is my hypothesis that there might have been someone or some organization that planned parts of both Chicago and Houston because the two cities are so similar in appearance and vibe. I haven't found the connection yet, but I think it exists.

This type of thinking inevitably led to the thought: Who planned San Antonio? Or, actually: Who is currently planning San Antonio? Emil Moncivais is the current planner, according to the city website, and I really feel for this guy. San Antonio has grown so much in the past few years, I'm sure it is a tough job to organize the new construction around what already exists. It is clear that the city has a mission to protect its classic architecture and to ensure that residential areas are green and peaceful. However, how are other things planned? Art, food and music, for instance? I already mentioned the lack of diversity on San Antonio's airwaves; why is that? There are countless amazing artists in San Antonio; where are the funds to support them? When a controversial play was recently put on, community members saw fit to wonder whether the arts should be funded at all (on the WOAI website - that's NBC, folks). According to this info., San Antonio plans itself differently than most major cities. It actually does not allow outside regions (suburbs) to create independent municipalities; in other words, it ensures that it can acquire all surrounding land and zone it the way the city is zoned. Therefore, not a lot of independent changes can occur within or outside of the city limits.

Okay, that may explain why San Antonio doesn't have a lot of outside influence, but why are Chicago and Houston so alike? According to a couple of articles in the Houston Chronicle, there is Marquette Companies, a Chicago-based firm, that has building projects in Houston. So it may be as simple as big builders leaving their mark on many major cities. But why do Chicago and Houston have such a cosmopolitan outlook when it comes to the arts, food and entertainment? Why is San Antonio more traditional when it comes to these things? I don't think either choice is wrong - both options are way cool - but what influences a city to make such decisions? The fact that Houston and Chicago are next to waterways might have an influence.... Hmm. And what is the result of such planning?

Well, I can tell you that if I hadn't grown up in Chicago, I may never have become an artist. Theater, fine art, dance, music and public support and space for these things were an integral part of my childhood. Houston really reminded me of this. If I had grown up in San Antonio, things may have been different. There are awesome traditions here; kids learn to dance, sing and play Mariachi music and dances in a religious way, and painting techniques - as seen in San Antonio's many murals - are studied with great care by young and old alike. What is the value of promoting the arts in these different ways?

First of all, you get impeccable art in San Antonio. The precision and care that is taken is breathtaking. However, there is just not a lot of financial support - although I must say that actors here actually expect to be paid and that is not the norm in places like New York where you're just happy to have gotten a role.

There isn't a lot of public support for the arts, either. This summer Vincent created a program at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center that brought teens from New York and San Antonio together to create film, visual art, theater and poetry together. It was awesome! (Slide show link) The Teen Arts Puentes Program (S.A.) and the ACTION Project (da Bronx) had an incredible closing show that brought laughter and tears of joy. The theater was packed! And it got press! However, there are several people in the community that dismiss such a program as "communist" (I am not joking), "a waste of time," and not something that will get their child into college or lead towards a career. In fact, many folks think that these endeavors are a waste of time for adults, too, because they do not generate revenue. Vincent and I were wondering why people might have this opinion. In New York, Chicago and Houston, most patrons of the arts understand that the arts are supported by grants and other kinds of donations and that generating revenue is not the point. They understand that museums and other similar institutions lose money all the time on acquisitions, etc., but that if you look for it, there is always money to support creative projects. The big cities understand that art, in all its forms, creates minds and souls that are prepared for a variety of tasks. Art generates creative thinking. Period. So why not use that in all cities?

San Antonio is a military city. As I mentioned before, the music heard here is traditional. Hard rock, country (without a lot of politics) and Tejano. The art is traditional. Therefore, the thinking is traditional. Or is it? Is it really tradition? Or is it just limited? There is tons of support for the Spurs here, and as it should be for they are a winning team. I remember the waves of support for my own Bulls. However, the Bulls money led to new parks and public art in the heart of downtown Chicago. Spurs money...I'm not sure where it's going. It certainly isn't going towards art. But does that mean that Houston is a better city than San Antonio? 100% NO!

What I've come to realize is that Chicago and Houston have all this variety because those cities have a lot of money. San Antonio is not a rich city. That's why it's so cheap to live here. I probably couldn't afford to live in Houston. So the pattern I'm seeing here is that the wealthier cities give their residents an abundant variety of music, art, food, culture, etc., but cities that don't have the same resources just don't get that stuff. It's the classic reason why small town folks move to the big city (although, San Antonio isn't exactly a small town). What the folks of San Antonio do get is a bunch of military choices. Since they haven't had a lot of choice to begin with, the lack of career choices may not seem that bad. I think there is something wrong with this.

The kids in the TAPP program were starved for what we were bringing to them. And actually, the kids in the Bronx were pretty excited about all the artistic possibilities that were presented to them, too. When they saw that there was an arts complex (where Vinny and I live), they wanted something like that in the Bronx. You should note here that Hip Hop and breakdancing and graffiti art were created in the Bronx despite the fact that New York art big shots have notoriously avoided the Bronx. San Antonio is similar, in a way. There are so many great artists and writers here (it's Sandra Cisneros' home, yo!) despite the insistence that Austin and Houston are the real art centers of Texas.

All this ends up making kids think that they can't be on the football team AND in theater classes. You'll find kids in both San Antonio and the Bronx that think theater is "gay." You can probably fake people out on the field in a more convincing way if you take an acting class, dude. It also makes adults think that there is no monetary value on artistic pursuits. All the richest people in the U.S. have promoted the arts and the wealthiest cities clearly have an intertwined relationship with the arts. Seems to me city planners, and whomever is influencing them, are deliberately trying to keep the arts away from cities that are on the poorer side. That is, the working class don't need art. They need sports and the military. That's really interesting because all of the best artists I've ever met came from working class backgrounds. We all know that military recruiting centers are located in poorer areas, ie., the Bronx and San Antonio.

My dreams came true because I grew up in a city with art. Would I have even known what my dreams were if I had grown up in a different place? Would I have developed different dreams? Would those dreams have really been my own? It is scary to think that city planners, people who I never met, influenced my life to such an extent.

Oh, and I won't even go into the architects that design both prisons and public schools. Ha!

Party Positively Perfect

2007-06-07T14:31:00.000-05:00

After a crazy end of the semester (defending my work from being graded inappropriately, my funding being cut in half, the evil NJ taxation people squeezing us dry when yours truly made only about $10,000 by teaching at five different jobs last year), Vincent and I actually decided to celebrate. There were good things, despite the chaos. Vincent's family friend, Candido Tirado, was/is now in town to direct his play, "Momma's Boys." I managed (after a fight) to get perfect grades. Beautiful weather was in abundance. We couldn't complain. We decided to open up the Blue Boogie to all the lovely people who have become a part of our lives. And it went surprisingly well! The flowers you see here were a gift from one of our guests (!) and I have to say, that generosity set the tone for the evening.

Please let me introduce you to the awesome people who shared our space:

Nereida is a wonderful woman who should be paid boku dolares (big dollars) for her reading skills. She is a poet but she could be reading a grocery list and it would bring you to joyful tears. She is Puerto Rican and used to live in the New York area, which explains why she gives such great hugs. She was excited to watch the Spurs game; the city is unified and ready for their big win.

Chad, a quiet and careful speaker, is also a writer and I met him first at the graduate school's literary magazine, the Sagebrush Review. I later met him through one of our creative writing classes and he wrote a cool story about a brave girl who saves her village. I was really surprised to see him show up because I'm kind of the person to pick on in UTSA's literary circles (the prez of Sagebrush said I was tacky to a room full of people I just met because I wanted to put an upcoming gig in my bio and a couple of people in the online class were somewhat hostile about my experimental story - hee, hee!). I made sure to tell Chad that his presence meant a lot to me, and it did!

Candido Veras, not to be confused with Candido Tirado, was a crucial key to our party. This guy is an amazing eccentric artist who owns one of the largest lofts at the Blue Star Arts Complex (although, I heard he may be moving). He came in ready for merengue, merengue, merengue! His demands for dance music were substantial and I hope we satisfied. He also gave us a work of art made with old newspapers and Bud bottles - he compressed everything into a pulp paper which looks pretty cool, actually. Candido danced with all the ladies and spilled his wine just like the song tells us to. And, he brought many friends...including Pirate Joe.

Pirate Joe is a young lad who came into my home dressed like Adam Ant in his pirate phase. He spoke like Johnny Depp in the recent pirate trilogy and he looks kind of like a chubbier Orlando Bloom. I didn't pay much attention to this little guy because I figured he and Candido Veras had...an arrangement...but he turned out to be so damn interesting! First of all, he ate a lot of my food while stating how scrumptious it was and that is a compliment, indeed, cuz Texan's don't eat lasagna made with summer squash (or crudites, for that matter). Second, he knew the definition of "scalawag" or "scallywag," which means a rascal but can also mean various political things depending on the dictionary you're looking at. Pirate Joe and I dove into my foot-thick volume of Oxford definitions and got into how definitions change depending on time, publishers, etc. Apparently, Pirate Joe also carries around the U.S. Constitution in his back pocket, ready for debate. However, most amusement came from his reaction upon hearing that the boys in "Momma's Boys" did not have to learn how to cook crack cocaine when they naively decide to try to sell drugs. "Those lucky bastards! Do you know how hard it is to cook cocaine? It crackles and sprays up on you and burns you. Those lucky bastards!" Pirate Joe left a bone compass drawing on my bathroom wall and was one of the last to leave. He took the remaining rum in case he had to sleep bearing the elements.

Devon is a very cool M.A. student and she brought her artist husband, Luis Valderas, to the spot. He was feeling a bit under the weather but it didn't keep them from meeting everyone and having a nice long talk with Candido T. They both drew on the bathroom wall, too, and I feel honored to have both a Luis Valderas on my wall AND Devon Valderas on my wall. She and I met a week later to check out the huge prints made by all the local artists at a steamroller event right here at the Blue Star. Devon is witty and wonderful and I love her hair (don't dispute it, Devon!).

Rachel, the Education Coordinator at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center, and her husband Brian came over and while she talked to everyone and giggled and giggled, Brian raided our extensive library and record collection with Pirate Joe. Brian left things as they were but we can't say the same for Pirate Joe, who tends to put things back the way a blind two-year-old might. Rachel was quite a surprise and I think I can say that I've found a friend who can hang with the patient ol' partying Grisel (but I am getting older, folks).

Rich Diaz came sanz wife Belinda (who was also ill) but boy were we happy to have him over. What a smart and thoughtful guy. He was having fun watching the madness from the sidelines. I could see him giggling at the strange array of guests and I was right there with him. Rick has lived pretty much all over the world (he's been to two places Vinny's been to: Turkey and Tucumcary - not sure if that's spelled right) and his better half has always been right there with him. These experiences have made them into a sweet, wise couple who happen to be amazing thinkers and artists, too. The link on his name gives more of his background and a view of his amazing larger-than-life puppets.

Martha Curcio and her sweet friend (can't remember the name of this lovely lady in red) came ready to dance and Martha brought one of her wonderful flower creations seen in the picture at the top of this article. Vincent and I met Martha when we performed for the Society of Latino and Hispanic Writers here in San Antonio. She blessed our spot at SASS and has continued contact with us. I absolutely love Martha. Her flowers are amazing. She is generous. I only hope I can one day have as much grace as she - and her friend!

Mark, the dad of the dude across the hallway who has a badass chopper, was quite happy to talk to the ladies and gents all evening long. He admired our books and had a great time when we screened "The Hideous Secrets of Hock Streedlefork," now on the omnipresent YouTube. Mark is an interesting guy: he rides his bike, he can build pretty much anything and he's really smart. I think the ladies (and gents) were happy to talk to him, too.

Laura, Hillary, Benny and various members of Second to None, came through. Benny, in addition to Candido T., was celebrating his B-Day, so he and Candido got to share a wish when the Blue Boogie candles were blown. Later on we got a sneak preview to STN's new CD and it was damn good. These guys were a bit shy but somehow Rachel and I broke the shell a bit with, what was it, turpentine? Hmmm.

Rodney Garza, an amazing actor/director, who has been an integral part of the Guadalupe's theater productions before and since Vincent began coordinating them, showed up after the Spurs game which he actually slept through. Rodney is a very hard worker but somehow manages to have energy for more and more. He and Candido T. and Rachel talked to the wee hours while I cleaned up and made sure Pirate Joe didn't burn my records when using a lighter to see the names of the LPs. Rodney's lovely love, Deva, slept it out but she was surely missed. She had superb timing as one of the Greek chorus women in a Chicano version of the Electra myth.

Alex Rubio and his clan of amazing artists make a quick afterhours stop. They are some cool, mellow folks and we saw more of them during the steamroller printmaking event a week later. We hope to see more of them in the future!

Bertha, from the Guadalupe, and her hubby came over and I must say that they were two people who danced who didn't need to be told to dance. Jimmy and Genevieve, also from the Center, came by and we talked about living spaces and how they are usually cheap here in S.A. and how the are usually an arm and a leg in New York. I've had that conversation over and over and somehow I just don't tire of it. It's true!! Belinda Menchaca and her husband were also on hand when our cat Hemingway (I didn't name it) kept sneaking out in the hallway to see if the conversation out there was as good as the indoor jive. What I especially loved was that Belinda had a smile on her face the whole time - now was she smiling with us or...? :)

Now, there were some miscellaneous folks that called and came through and I'm not really sure who they were or who brought them or where they came from, but they were really nice and they didn't steal anything beyond something to drink or whatnot. That's what I like about art complexes. You can go into a loft party, grab a drink, get to know the people, and you're not treated like an outsider but a potential friend. I've done the same thing countless times at the art lofts that once existed in Jersey City (before they were torn down and made into condos for Wall Street people). One of the artists at the Jersey City link, Ron English, did the art for "Supersize Me" and was such a nice guy, he let me interview him for an article. That's what the folks who graced the Blue Boogie are like, too. Really nice people. Isn't that great? When you continue to hear about all the drama in the news or encounter pressures at work it is nice to know that really cool, non-judgmental people exist in the world. It's especially great to know that they are all a little bit crazy and fun just like you, too.

Yippie! The Blue Boogie has officially been warmed up!

party celebrate boogie

2007-05-19T18:08:00.000-05:00

You’re invited!

We are celebrating:

The end of the school year!
Our anniversary (2 years)!
The home we’ve made (can you believe we didn’t have time for an official housewarming?)!
The birth of Candido Tirado,
playwright and director in residence at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center!
Summah’s commin’!

Please join us on
Saturday, May 26th
@ 7p.m. ‘til ?

at The Blue Boogie

email dsegotism@yahoo.com for details

Expect eats, drinks, music and dancin’!

The Diverse World of Freaks

2007-05-01T14:50:00.000-05:00

I recently had the pleasure of returning to the place that I called home for seven years: New York City. Although, I should mention that name isn’t exactly accurate because, for me, NYC included the Hudson County area of New Jersey where all the wonderful Freaks are moving to because of the cheaper rent. Jersey City is the place that is advertised as “alternative lifestyle friendly,” whatever that means. Anyway, by the end of the trip my husband, Toro, and I were reeling at the diversity of places that we had encountered in one short week. Let me take you on that virtual journey, my friends.

We both arrived in New Jersey to be part of the Geraldine Dodge Foundation’s Annual East Brunswick Poetry Festival and Workshop Series, which featured Li-Young Lee this year. How lucky are we? Well, the poets were more diverse than I thought – there were spoken word poets from the LouderArts scene, sweet older wisdom type poets, and crazy working class crass poets that are always refreshing when things get too deep. I was really nervous, as usual, but everyone made me feel pretty welcome. In fact, and I just have to record this because if I don’t I won’t believe it happened; Li-Young Lee himself came up to yours truly (and he is known for never coming up to anyone) and literally stopped me from exiting the auditorium to tell me that he thought my work was beautiful. When I told my husband the cynical side of me came out and I wondered if he was some sort of pervert that was just saying that because he wanted to flirt or something but hubby assured me that Mr. Lee is a righteous family man. Well, either way, it was way cool to get some props from a person who we call an “academic” poet, especially when I consider myself a hardcore chica.

That experience would’ve been enough, right? Well, it gets better. Somehow we managed to get a nice group of our friends together at The White Horse Tavern, the historic bar that was frequented by Dylan Thomas. After going crazy at Know Know – the absolute best place to buy cheap cool clothes (rags in Texas are so overpriced it’s disgusting) – we met our pals at the spot at 5 p.m. We got to see: Jay Rhoderick, the actor actor actor who is funny funny funny and who brings oodles of life to any production or conversation he is a part of; Nick Marvalous, the hip hop Italian turned punk rock rebel gone straightedge; Joe Jacovino, the healthy guitar-playing, marathon bike running, poet songwriter who reminds me of the Muppet band dude with the bass; Carmen Rivera, the Latina playwright who has won awards for her numerous plays and happens to be Toro’s cousin; Christine Goodman and Jack Halpin, the dynamic duo who have taken the NYC Fringe Fest and poetry/arts scene in Joisey by storm with their rockin’ Art House; Bill and Rachel Rood (well, they’ll share the last name officially in Sept.), the computer whizzes and innovative thinkers who imagine telephone booth homes and slides in the middle of bars; Onome, the singing poet who studied under Tracie Morris uh-huh and Village Voice lady who is always up for meeting new people; Greg Segarra, Hilti man extraordinaire, collector of languages and all world politics information, the human crossword puzzle, the Puerto Rican Costanza; Alyssa (ooooh, I’m gonna forget her new last name – she got married last year in the coolest place ever) Gutierrez, the math wizard who is developing alternative ways to teach math so some of you literary thinkers can participate with the rest of the world (hee, hee); Nova Gutierrez, the Bill Gates Millennium scholar at Columbia who has her art in This Bridge We Call Home and who does poetry and art and is compiling the stories of the women in her family; Bobby De Jesus, Mr. Crazyforcarisma, actor, writer, educator and hilarious friend with a heart and muchisimo talento; Diana Diaz, Ms. yes, BOTH of my gorgeous kids are chess champions and by the way I have my own life too, that includes being an educator, journalist and writer – whew!; Marina Gutierrez, artist and the head of Cooper Union’s Saturday Program which gives diverse students throughout the NYC area the chance for free studio art classes and portfolio prep and who has weathered the many storms that try to destroy this blessing; Charles Fambro, music genius and innovative thinker who wonders if low-frequency sounds are transmitted from city centers in order to keep us from breaking our set patterns; Claudio Nolasco, the only photographer I know who has recorded the effects of gentrification on hip Brooklyn and who also knows how to go hunting in the Dominican Republic; and last but not less, Gary Santana, the always cool dude (when you gonna paint again?) who put together multiple events for the NYC Latino Film Fest – yo, he got Piri Thomas, Pedro Pietri and Candido Tirado together in the same room – stories for days!

Yes, we caused a fire hazard in the bar, but the storytelling was beautiful and funny and amazing and I wanted to laugh and cry and scream all night. We were eating and drinking until about two in the morning. That’s right, from 5 p.m. – 2 a.m., and it felt too short. We even stopped at Kim’s! What was really interesting about the night was all the technology, which is really telling about New York. Everyone was showing pictures and movies on their iPods, Blackberries, and whatever else they’ve invented. Claudio had some sort of gadget that can show two and a half movies in a row before the power dies. And, everyone thoroughly enjoyed dissing the supposed smoke signals that Toro and I have forced people to use to contact us given that we don’t have a cell phone or answering machine at home. Yeah, well, we all made it there, didn’t we, uh-huh.

So Toro and I moved from the very academic circles of poetry to the very hip circles of New York writers, artists and educators. But wait…there’s more. Have you ever been to New Jersey? It has a flavor all its own, something like good Italian sausage stewed in chemical waste. That is, it tastes really good, but you know there’s probably something in there that might be bad for you. But we like the bad stuff. It’s what makes us stronger, no?

Jeff, Vinny’s (Toro’s) childhood friend, decided he wanted to do a barbecue for us and after picking us up he took us to the local Shop-Rite and loaded up on goodies like fresh basil for grilled pizza and a big bottle of tequila (ah, San Antonio is not so far away). Jeff is an interesting guy. He is an artist – that’s what he went to school for – a bartender, a chef, and a certified masseuse. Dude likes to work with his hands. Vinny and I were somewhat comatose from the night before, but we tried to be as lively as possible in order to help Jeff out with the eats. That is, until he set forth some fruity margaritas before us. I was washing and drying the basil and then I needed to sit down for a minute, which turned out to be the rest of the night. As I sat, I was happy to listen to the stories Vinny’s other friends told. Rocco talked about endless camping stories, how he used to be so angry and his wife changed all that, and got into a serious political debate with Vinny. Noel and Chris, our favorite couple who now owns a van rock on, showed up and they talked about their new gig as roadies for musical equipment which gave me romantic ideas of carrying around upright bases and French horns.

But the storyteller of the evening was Steve. The storyteller is always Steve. Perhaps we shouldn’t have told Steve, in the past, that he is a great storyteller because that is all he does now. One story right after the other. He doesn’t provide a segway. He just keeps going. Let me explain something about Steve. He works in the porn industry. Steve manages a pornography store and he has recently started giving x-rated “Tupperware” parties which have become very popular among brides-to-be. So his stories are…acid stories on crack. Not for the stiff intolerant folks. For example, he has stories about the guy who came in and asked for a film with urine and a goat. Oh, that’s tame. Believe me. No matter how grossed out or weirded out you might get, his stories are…addictive. You have to keep listening because you wonder, how far will humanity go? We’ve begged him to write them down. We’ve told him that he would make millions. He could sell his book at his and other stores. He told me that his writing comes out poetically, not in prose form. I told him to write porn poetry. I mentioned Tsaurah Litzky and how she has taught erotic poetry/prose at the New School and how big she is and how she’s like 80 years old which shows that there’s all kinds of markets for this stuff.

Vinny’s New Jersey friends tell mad stories. It’s like this culture they have. You have to one-up the last story that was told. And all of them are really, really good at it. They have crazy accents that I just want to hear over and over and along with storytelling it makes me think that they are linguistic geniuses and don’t know it. They have other aspects to this culture, too. They are religious about good food. Our friend Andrew doesn’t fuck around when it comes to cooking. He makes fettuccini alfredo in the woods. Not joking at all. They also like to build stuff. Andrew and Jeff and some others built some sort of structure that supposed to give them a shelter when they go camping; I know I’m getting it wrong, but that just shows my ignorance when compared. Jeff built this contraption that can hold a 40 lb. block of ice for the sheer purpose of taking a shot off of the ice. They have pictures of all the people who have taken a shot off of the ice. Apparently, it makes for a tasty shot.

They are even artful when it comes to pranks. Their pranks are elaborate plans that take time and energy. Let me provide one example. Jeff, as I said before, is a bartender. He started working at the Cadillac Bar in Hoboken (home of Frank Sinatra). Well, the fella who owned the Cadillac Bar sold it and it became The Cage, which started out as a place that had chicks in cages. Interestingly, the chicks in cages didn’t sell. Business was bad. So, they decided to make The Cage into a gay bar. Jeff asked Vinny, at the time, what he thought of that. Vinny asked Jeff who pays for drinks at bars. Jeff answered, “Usually guys.” Vinny answered, “Well, now you’ve doubled your clientele.” Jeff was sold. He decided to stay at The Cage. I don’t want to answer any questions about Jeff’s sexuality, but ironically, after the bar turned gay, Jeff has to fight women off. Nonetheless, Jeff’s friends happened to come across a promotional photograph that was taken of Jeff and another bartender (damn, not on the site anymore). It was a very cute picture. In fact, Andrew thought it was so cute, he decided to print it out. He also decided to copy it. About a hundred times. So, when Jeff and all his buddies decided to go camping again, as is their custom, Jeff was delighted to find said picture posted upon EVERY SINGLE TREE along the path to the clearing of the campground. One hundred trees. And I believe the pictures were left up the whole weekend.

When it was time to go after visiting, I was still so tipsy I told Rocco that it was nice meeting him. He didn’t hesitate to make fun of me, so I guess that means I’m family.

The last few days of the trip were back in Academia. I met Raquel Z. Rivera, a professor at Hunter College who wrote an amazing book about Puerto Ricans and hip hop. Vincent met with ACTION Project people about the student exchange that is to take place here in San Antonio this summer. When we arrived in San Anto, we were in the midst of Fiesta but we couldn’t enjoy because work beckoned. We didn’t feel so guilty later when we found out that Fiesta is a celebration of Mexico’s defeat. Hmmph.

I love my Freaks. In all their forms, I love my Freaks.

Our Violence (Virginia and elsewhere)

2007-04-16T15:43:00.000-05:00

I am in tears because of the news and at first I was surprised, like I was one certain September. But, now that I’ve had a minute, I know where this stems from and that we shouldn’t be surprised. Every time this happens we blame violent films, parents, terrorists or whatever other rhetoric has been made popular. The fact is that all of it is to blame and most importantly WE are to blame. No one can agree on gun control and it shames me that the first statement our idiot of a president (I refuse to capitalize it) makes in regard to children getting murdered is that we have a right to bear arms but we should use it responsibly.

What is responsible, mister bush? Are we responsible when we demean our culture to half-naked women who would rather have a firearm as a prosthetic than to be strong in more human ways? Is it responsible when we send children to kill children overseas? Is it responsible when we call people who defend themselves terrorists and then blame such terrorists for our own irresponsibility with our own children on our own soil at the schools we made?

Guns and bombs are bad. They have endangered our animal friends, they have polluted our soils and they do not defend anything except the destruction of all that is good in the world. And by the way, while I find bush’s words totally offensive, I do not blame him for this. I repeat, WE are to blame. We have allowed our country to occupy the lands of peaceful people so that we can exploit them. Why do you think we are eating ourselves from the inside? Why do you think that we have repeated massacres such as this one? Don’t think that once this idiot is out of office all will be well. What we’ve done did not occur in eight years time. It has been there since we stole the beautiful fruit of Africa. And it will continue to be with us until we just admit it. The U.S. is a violent nation. We invade peaceful peoples and their rich lands, and this is driving our population to madness. We will be sick until we admit what we’ve done and apologize for this sick, sick rape of our Mother Earth and her children.

I do know that many of us want to make reparations, to African Americans, to the countries we invade, to the children we neglect, to the victims of gun and war violence. I know this because there is a tax protest. I have a previous blog about that. Unfortunately, our government is suing tax protesters. I will be watching the results of that lawsuit closely, and taking notes.

I should also mention that Toro, the amazing poet and my husband, writes of our self-destruction in his yet unpublished Gods and Guns. Many of you have heard his epic poem "From Big Bang to Columbine," which is part of this collection. He often wonders why this work hasn't been published yet and I can only say that it is because no one wants to admit the truth, especially when it comes from the mouth of a Puerto Rican. I am honored to direct you to his link at the sidebar of this page. I also think it is no coincidence that he and I now live in the state that spawned our idiot leader and that spawned the two previous massacres of this type (in Killeen, Texas and at my sister school, UT-Austin). Pray that God uses us to promote change and healing in this injured place.

Share with me, peoples, share. Cuz I needs ya.

Climate of Intolerance Stretches Across the U.S.

2007-03-22T11:36:00.000-05:00

The Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center in San Antonio, Texas, recently came under fire because they put on a play about Che Guevara's last living days. This prompted ADULTS to question whether our tax dollars should fund the arts at all. The link to the NBC blog will show you the intelligent discussion that took place around this issue. Given that arts and arts education funding has been cut to nearly zero in the United States, I found it amusing that anyone still thought we were funding the arts.

One of the things I've noticed along the highways of Texas is that every time I see someone who has been stopped by a cop, the person is usually Black or Latino. No surprise there. That happens everywhere, even if you aren't driving. The difference is in Texas, they make their accusations stick, even if you are fourteen and female.

I have been welcomed, fed and taken care of by wonderful people down here in the South. Poet Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz, who is in New York right now, traveled all the way from Arizona to read at our budding poetry spot at the Guadalupe. June Pedraza, a local poet who started the Sagebrush Review Literary Magazine at the University of Texas at San Antonio, has asked me to read at several events. My friend Laura, who is married to the basist in Second to None, has been so much fun and is a breath of fresh air in Academialand. And the wonderful speaker/poet Nereida Reyes, who is from New York (!), has been nothing but warmth and real deal love. On top of that, my adviser Dr. Bridget Drinka, and the folks at the Hispanic Leadership Program, have been very supportive of my goals.

So I'm sure you can understand when I say that Texas is craaayyyyzzeeee! On the one hand, people have been very appreciative and supportive but on the other hand, I'm sometimes afraid to say a word, to pick that loud vinyl skirt to wear, or to even look at someone in the face. I'm still me, but wow. Being me caused one chick, who is younger and less educated than I, to call me tacky. Being me has caused another chick to question why I would identify with my African ancestry. Being me has been really interesting down here.

What is even more interesting, however, is that a month ago I received an email from a friend on the East Coast who lives in a very liberal city. He saw a Black man being beat up by a policeman while he was walking one evening with his wife. Another Black man who was observing this said something and my friend's wife said that the effort wasn't worth it, in hopes of avoiding the cop's wrath. Despite that, all three of the observers were jailed and are awaiting trial. It seems that it has become difficult to be oneself wherever one may be. Even back East.

Even in California, hateful language and actions have been so strong that they've found their way to my door in the media.

All these things are nothing new, I know. History repeats itself and what has begun to repeat itself is scary. How many more dead? How many more jailed? How many more confrontations of intolerance? How many more children in schools that don't serve them? How many more adults who don't have one idea about how to create life and positivity?

I find solace in the protests. But I would find more solace in the tolerance and compassion of my peers. I would find more solace in knowing that all of us could speak our minds without judgment and fear. I would find more solace in a country that didn't feel the need to silence anyone who might have a different point of view.

I know my parents lived in climates such as this one. I know my ancestors lived in worse conditions. What I don't know is....

Immigration, Wiseguys and the Academy Awards

2007-02-21T12:50:00.000-06:00

This article was originally posted in April of 2006 but I thought in light of the upcoming Academy Awards show - and especially in light of the number of African American and Latino nominees - it might be nice to get the message out there again. My husband Vincent and I have also thought Forrest Whitaker's induction into Scientology and Will Smith's budding friendship with Tom Cruise were also an interesting turn of events. I want one of them there Academy Awards; I think I'll become a Scientologist! Hmmm. Anyway, the article that follows is just a reminder that when "art" and big money mix, it is not necessarily art anymore (hint: it's propaganda). Enjoy.

Some United States Congress members want to make a felon out of anyone who gives healthcare or shelter to an immigrant and, just in case you’ve been asleep the past few weeks, it has resulted in nationwide protests, the latest one taking place in New York on Saturday, April 1st. Pictures in the media imply that all the protesters are Mexican, but even the Associated Press has reported that the rallies have included people of Irish, Polish, Korean, Pakistani, Italian, and many other descents. Instead of taking the “stay out” attitude of some of our legislators, why not ask yourself this question: “Why do all these people come to the United States?” Whoa! Refrain from the usual programming and hesitate before you think that the U.S. is the greatest friggin’ nation on the planet, that’s why, damnit! Sure, it might be, but how does everyone else on the planet, people who live thousands of miles away on remote little islands or in out-of-the-way towns, get the notion that our streets are paved of gold? I’ll tell you how. We keep telling them!

When my cousin Dorcas came to the U.S. for a visit in 1998, she was very disappointed. She had been here a whole week before she saw a blonde person. It was also troubling for her to see that we didn’t have a gorgeous house with a courtyard, like her parents do, and that we didn’t have a maid, like she’s always had. Of course I thought, “Where the hell did she get her ideas?” It reminded me of the old flick, “Moscow on the Hudson,” where Robin Williams plays the famous Russian defector, Yakov Smirnoff, and he doesn’t understand where all the American people are because the friends he makes are Asian, African American and Latino. Well, I figured at least my cousin’s confusion was because of the lame Colombian theaters that only play films like “Bird on a Wire” and “You’ve Got Mail,” films that don’t necessarily represent the diverse U.S. population. I didn’t realize there is a reason for the lame choices until a few other pieces of information came into play.

Danny Hoch, the famous New York playwright and actor, wrote an interesting article for The Nation called, “Mr. Hoch Goes to Hollywood: Why ‘Whiteboys’ wasn’t at a theater near you.” In it he describes how his story about a white boy who acts black, and who engages in violence in an urban projects area, was buried by a studio. This was years ago, and since then other writers have produced similar projects, but at the time Danny found out that the studio didn’t want to promote a white person in such a situation nor did it want to show the real projects. I know that if my cousin and countless other people in foreign lands saw films that depicted housing projects and how some of our poor live in the United States, they might have a more realistic view of what goes on here and they might not be so keen on moving here. But films that show our mansions and supposedly glamorous lives are not the only way people are falsely lured to the U.S. We go deeper than that.

According to Nancy Snow, author of Propaganda, Inc.: Selling America’s Culture to the World, in 1917 the United States set up the Committee on Public Information, which later evolved into the United States Information Agency, or USIA. If you take a look at the online archives of the USIA there isn’t much, but there are a few things worth mentioning. The first is that one of their projects has been Radio Marti. This is a radio station that runs 24/7 and its sole purpose is to broadcast democracy to the island of Cuba. I’m not joking. Our tax dollars are spent promoting our way of life to a country that doesn’t want anything to do with us. The Cuban Government is usually successful in blocking out the transmissions, but we still keep sending them. I asked my mom about this and she mentioned that since the 50s up until the time the Communist Party lost its stronghold in Eastern Europe, the U.S. had radio programming in countless languages called “The Voice of the Americas.” It would send anti-communist programming along the airwaves to all communist nations. So, much like the annoying houseguest who doesn’t listen in monologue-oriented conversation, we send our opinions wherever we like, even if they are not wanted. Snow defines propaganda as communication that intends on changing the mind of its audience, communication that ends up being advantageous to its sender, and communication that is usually one-way. The USIA doesn’t even try to hide that it does this.

The website gets stranger. I noticed that part of its archives has a list of scheduled elections in practically any country you can think of. If we’re just providing information about who we are and how we function, why do we need to know about elections? Next, I saw that many “world organization” dates were listed, such as world meetings on AIDS, or world meetings on women’s issues. The types of organizations that attend or run these meetings are ones like Transparency International, an organization that claims to fight corruption in government and in global business. Interesting. I took a look at the Transparency International website and checked out its board members. They include: Chong San Lee, formerly of Exxon Mobil; Jermyn Brooks, formerly of Pricewaterhouse Coopers (he headed its fairly recent merger as the company’s “worldwide chair”); and Frank Vogel, of Vogel Communications and the Wisemen, a network of U.S. public relation industry leaders…oh, and he was also Chief Press Advisor to the World Bank.

Okay, now how does this all connect to the USIA and promoting U.S. culture? And so what? Shouldn’t we be promoting our culture out there? Perhaps, but who should be promoting it? When Bush went into office in 2000, the USIA was absorbed by the U.S. Department of State. That is the department that decides all our foreign policy. We could actually say that the USIA was always a part of the Department of State and that the way we promote our culture IS foreign policy. At the USIA website, the Dept. of State link informs us of where we have troops stationed (practically everywhere, even if we aren’t at war with the country), our love for the World Bank and the World Trade Organization and how they play in foreign policy, and how we plan to help developing economies so that they can eventually provide U.S. markets (this is symbolized lovingly by our white hand shaking a brown hand). This is the entity that is promoting who and what we are abroad, and it has been doing it for nearly 100 years. Why do they list elections? Because they want to promote our “culture” during election time in other countries so that our intended foreign policy can be carried out. Why do they list world organization meetings? Because they want to show up at the meetings and influence organizations to carry out policy that will be favorable to us. But who is “us?”

Not me. It is people like the guys at Transparency International, the anti-corruption group. Let me take a minute to further describe how its members are connected to public relations and public policy. I don’t need to write much about Frank Vogel. He is both a member of TI, an anti-corruption group, and has worked in PR for the World Bank, arguably one of the most corrupt entities on the planet today. The World Bank has placed countless “developing” countries in incomprehensible debt. A good example of how this happens is explained in the film "Life and Debt." The member of TI that really interested me, however, is Jermyn Brooks, who once headed the worldwide endeavors of Pricewaterhouse Coopers, an organization that is called an auditing firm but if you look on its website it has connections to EVERYTHING. There are connections to any industry you can think of – lumber, publishing, telecommunications, entertainment…. Pricewaterhouse Cooper has chapters in 764 cities in 148 countries, according to its website, and some of its clients include DuPont, Exxon Mobil, GlaxoSmith-Klein, Bristol-Meyers Squibb, Nokia and Walt Disney. PwC, according to the Center for Public Integrity, spent over $60 million lobbying in Washington on behalf of its clients between 1998 and 2004. Given that it is an accounting firm, it is understandable that it lobbied for tax reform, but other industries that it wanted to influence, to the effect of at least one mil per, were the electric, defense, oil and gas, and bank industries. The CPI placed it at #15 out of the top 250 highest spending lobbyists in Washington, D.C. Jermyn Brooks headed PwC, a major lobbying force, and now he works for TI, an anti-corruption group, that has met with United States Information Agency, a group that has promoted U.S. democratic culture throughout the world, and has now been absorbed into the U.S. State Department.

Oh, and in case you hadn’t noticed, Pricewaterhouse Coopers is, indeed, the company that safeguards under lock and key those deciding ballots at the Academy Awards, the little coveted ballots that decide who is going to become the next, high-paid actor that just might have his/her film voiced-over and exported to Colombia, or Thailand, or any other “developing” country. Well, except maybe Burma. According to www.burmacampaign.org.uk, in the article “PwC pulls out of Burma,” PwC had to leave in 2003 when it was discovered that its chapter there was supporting a facist leader in the Burmese elections. Oh, come on…you didn’t think we spent so much on movie-making to entertain you, did ya? It’s to keep the cheap help coming, and then to have someone to blame everything on! If you think the glamorous movies are lures, I’m not even gonna go into exported soap operas.

According to Snow, President Jimmy Carter had attempted to change the USIA’s policies when he was in office. He put in writing that it could not take part in any “covert, manipulative or propagandistic” activities, and he wanted to instill a new vision that would allow for information about other countries to come into the U.S. so that our citizens would be informed about the great policies and cultural attributes of the other countries. This change was squashed when Reagan was elected. The old Smith-Mundt prohibition was inappropriately used to claim that U.S. citizens receiving information about other countries would be like the U.S. using propaganda against its own citizens. The USIA’s budget was raised to $1 billion, where it stayed until the institution was absorbed into the Dept. of State. Now, who knows its budget? Under Bush, its practices have been obscured, but don’t let that keep you from seeing the fact that we go around telling everyone, systematically, how great we are and then when they get here we treat them like dirt, systematically. This process is ingrained in our government and our entertainment. And the winner is….

Interesting Links

The United States Information Agency: http://dosfan.lib.uic.edu/usia/

Transparency International Board Members:
http://www.transparency.org/about_us/organisation/board/board__1

Pricewaterhouse Coopers:
http://www.pwcglobal.com/gx/eng/main/home/index.html
(this website is extensive; I suggest you look at the site map and check out one or two industries they cover - the entertainment one is enlightening, especially in terms of the $1000 publication they have about their research on global entertainment)

The Burma article:
http://www.burmacampaign.org.uk/pm/weblog.php?id=P106

Questions for the New Year

2007-01-05T16:40:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year!

I’m happy. No, really, I am. I have a great husband, I got two As and a B for my first semester (I could be upset about the B but it was a hard-earned B, so I can’t complain), my folks have been totally supportive and I got to spend the holidays with them, and I even got to see Nova, my super-cool-awesome friend visiting from New York for New Year’s. Oh, and my pad is close to being pretty cool, too – we call it The Blue Boogie, ohhh yeeeeaaah.

And I bet you’re happy, too. You better be! My super-hot-awesome friend Jenny battled with cancer in 2006, beat it and finished off the year with a star-studded comic review benefitting cancer research. If someone can end a year battling cancer like that…I mean, honestly, none of us can complain, can we?

So, why is the news all bad? I’m here trying to read between the lines of this and that publication and in the end, the message is the same: death and corruption and misery. Wow. My life isn’t like that, my family’s life isn’t like that – and we got extended family in the places they call Third World, yo! – and my friends’ lives aren’t like that. Yes, I worked in the Bronx with District 75 kids who had sores and chibolos from head to toe and I had to teach them poetry when all I wanted to do was give them a bath and a decent place to live – there IS misery and I have been fortunate enough my whole life to be around people who work against that. My point is, there is a lot of stuff in the world that works against that misery so why don’t we hear about it more often? Is there a publication that I should be reading? Let me know!

In the end, all I am left with is questions. Do you know the answer to some of these?

WHAT I WISH THE NEWS WOULD TELL ME AND/OR DISCUSS:

Did Oprah have a master plan of luring suburban housewives to her show with silly topics like “becoming rich” and guests like Tom Cruise and Dr. Phil, only to end up using the big bucks market to promote reading and to create a school in South Africa that will counteract apartheid?

Or, did she just plan on making a lot of money with the housewife market and then realize she had to give a lot away to charity in order to avoid the tax man?

Did Bono have a similar master plan or is he a sell out, too?

Did David W. Hermance, 59, the inventor of the electric car/hybrid technology that is used in all hybrids today and an avid pilot, really die in a plane crash where he was the pilot or is someone benefitting from his “death?” (He was a big advocate for becoming less dependent on oil.)

Is there someone who is conducting extensive research on alternative Black and Latino music? (Probably my next blog.)

Are the Redwoods really being cut down and who on the planet thinks that is a good idea?

Don’t you find it creepy that the scholarship that is paying for my education is the result of a partnership with Texas A&M University and the most recent president of A&M just left the position in order to take over Rumsfeld’s job AND isn’t it disturbing that someone in EDUCATION is qualified for a Secretary of Defense?

Are people outside of New York aware that Giuliani was never considered a hero in New York and that most New Yorkers dread the possibility of his running for presidential office?

What might happen if the news reported no murders, great weather, schools and churches are loving environments and all our troops all over the world have come home (and they are getting a lifetime of healthcare, too)?

Were the officers who shot Sean Bell and his friends trying to beat the 41 shots record set by Diallo’s murderers? Why does anyone in the U.S. need any more convincing that there is something wrong with our armed forces in general?

Do sunsets and sand and grass and trees and stars have a positive effect (emotionally, health-wise, etc.) on humans and, if so, why don’t we build our towns to ensure that we have easy access to such things.

Why do we refer to everything that happens in “Africa” as something that happens in “Africa” instead of using the name of the specific country being referred to? We don’t say that there is an uprising in “Europe” when there is an uprising in France, nor do we say kids are going mad about the new X-Box in North America when the phenomenon is happening in the United States, so why do we continually refer to problems in Somalia as problems in Africa, for example?

Why are actors used as ambassadors? Shouldn’t ambassadors be people who read more than just scripts?

Did Bill Gates donate all his money the past few years in order to quiet the threat of an anti-trust lawsuit the U.S. Justice Department had against him in 1998 (apparently there is an 11-DVD set of the deposition that was auctioned on eBay in 2005)?

Are there uncharted waters and lands and how can someone get to them?

How is it that the Sugarhill Gang can be penniless but the dude who produced their classic tune is so rich that his kid is one of the brats on MTV’s “My Sweet Sixteen?”

Are U.S. citizens finally aware that world-wide we are seen not as the underdog we so love but as the annoying bully we’d like to see get a good spanking?

What are kids reading other than Harry Potter? Are graphic novels passe’ or has their glory only just begun?

Are The Mars Volta and TV on the Radio a couple of the best bands ever and are the new sound experiments going to require a multi-cultural perspective in order to be innovative?

Most visual art innovation seems to involve new programming and technology; what should someone who loves watercolor or acrylic be prepared for?

Will anonymity ever be popular again?

Can anyone clearly and simply answer where my taxes go?

That’s it for now.

And for those of you looking for Free Ph.D. information, here it is:

First of all, the teaching artist thing in New York has set a precedent. The rest of the country is cutting arts programs so expect there to be a need for supplemental teaching artists to bring the arts into schools all over the U.S. One company that has really worked on that in Texas is called Big Thought. I wrote about this in my Teaching Composition class.

Second, my final essay comparing Esmeralda Santiago’s America’s Dream and the new film “Babel” got me an “A.” Whew! I thought the prof. couldn’t stand me and maybe she couldn’t but she didn’t let it affect her grading policy. I strongly suggest you read the novel, see the film and compare. Both have a white couple visiting a “foreign” land and expecting certain kinds of service, both have a domestic worker whose work and livelihood are threatened when commitments to homeland and El Norte collide, both examine isolation within the urban environment, and both examine how our idea of masculinity ends up threatening men of color in the modern world. Deep stuff.