Yellow in Puebla, Mexico.
gypsealife

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#extradirty

ellievsbear
I'd rather be in outer space đž
Jules of Nature
cherry valley forever
The Stonewall Inn
almost home
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Fai_Ryy

Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
Not today Justin

if i look back, i am lost
Claire Keane
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă

bliss lane
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@cornbreadconfrijoles
Yellow in Puebla, Mexico.
gypsealife
Soy Chingona
How to Be a Chingona in 10 Easy Steps
Live for your own approval. Center yourself. Be alone. Create your own space.
Discover your own powers. What floods you with joy?
Find true humility and practice it.
Keep your palabra, your word.
What are you using to cover or mask your pain? Address it.
Your only true possessions are your actions.
Seek forgiveness.
Live in the present moment.
Depression has a purpose if you use it before it uses you. Transform it to light. Compost it through art. If you canât do it by yourself, see a professional curandera (healer, therapist).
Listen to your body.
- Sandra Cisneros
(The YouTube video got pulled out :( )
Revolutionary Hope: A Conversation Between James Baldwin and Audre Lorde (Essence Magazine, 1984)
JB: One of the dangers of being a Black American is being schizophrenic, and I mean âschizophrenicâ in the most literal sense. To be a Black American is in some ways to be born with the desire to be white. Itâs a part of the price you pay for being born here, and it affects every Black person. We can go back to Vietnam, we can go back to Korea. We can go back for that matter to the First World War. We can go back to W.E.B. Du Bois â an honorable and beautiful man â who campaigned to persuade Black people to fight in the First World War, saying that if we fight in this war to save this country, our right to citizenship can never, never again be questioned â and who can blame him? He really meant it, and if Iâd been there at that moment I would have said so too perhaps. Du Bois believed in the American dream. So did Martin. So did Malcolm. So do I. So do you. Thatâs why weâre sitting here.
AL: I donât, honey. Iâm sorry, I just canât let that go past. Deep, deep, deep down I know that dream was never mine. And I wept and I cried and I fought and I stormed, but I just knew it. I was Black. I was female. And I was out â out â by any construct wherever the power lay. So if I had to claw myself insane, if I lived I was going to have to do it alone. Nobody was dreaming about me. Nobody was even studying me except as something to wipe out.
JB: You are saying you do not exist in the American dream except as a nightmare.
AL: Thatâs right. And I knew it every time I opened Jet, too. I knew that every time I opened a Kotex box. I knew that every time I went to school. I knew that every time I opened a prayer book. I knew it, I just knew it.
JB: It is difficult to be born in a place where you are despised and also promised that with endeavor â with this, with that, you know â you can accomplish the impossible. Youâre trying to deal with the man, the woman, the child â the child of whichever sex â and he or she and your man or your woman has got to deal with the 24-hour-a-day facts of life in this country. Weâre not going to fly off someplace else, you know, weâd better get through whatever that day is and still have each other and still raise children â somehow manage all of that. And this is 24 hours of every day, and youâre surrounded by all of the paraphernalia of safety: If you can strike this bargain here. If you can make sure your armpits are odorless. Curl your hair. Be impeccable. Be all the things that the American public says you should do, right? And you do all those things â and nothing happens really. And what is much worse than that, nothing happens to your child either.
AL: Even worse than the nightmare is the blank. And Black women are the blank. I donât want to break all this down, then have to stop at the wall of male/female division. When we admit and deal with difference; when we deal with the deep bitterness; when we deal with the horror of even our different nightmares; when we turn them and look at them, itâs like looking at death: hard but possible. If you look at it directly without embracing it, then there is much less that you can ever be made to fear.
JB: I agree.
AL: Well, in the same way when we look at our differences and not allow ourselves to be divided, when we own them and are not divided by them, that is when we will be able to move on. But we havenât reached square one yet.
JB: Iâm not sure of that. I think the Black sense of male and female is much more sophisticated than the western idea. I think that Black men and women are much less easily thrown by the question of gender or sexual preference â all that jazz. At least that is true of my experience.
AL: Yea, but letâs remove ourselves from merely a reactive position â i.e., Black men and women reacting to whatâs out there. While we are reacting to whatâs out there, weâre also dealing between ourselves â and between ourselves there are power differences that come downâŠ
JB: Oh, yesâŠ
AL: Truly dealing with how we live, recognizing each otherâs differences, is something that hasnât happenedâŠ
JB: Differences and samenesses.
AL: Differences and samenesses. But in a crunch, when all our asses are in the sling, it looks like it is easier to deal with the samenesses. When we deal with sameness only, we develop weapons that we use against each other when the differences become apparent. And we wipe each other out â Black men and women can wipe each other out â far more effectively than outsiders do.
JB: Thatâs true enough.
AL: And our blood is high, our furies are up. I mean, itâs what Black women do to each other, Black men do to each other, and Black people do to each other. We are in the business of wiping each other out in one way or the other â and essentially doing our enemyâs work.
JB: Thatâs quite true.
AL: We need to acknowledge those power differences between us and see where they lead us. An enormous amount of energy is being taken up with either denying the power differences between Black men and women or fighting over power differences between Black men and women or killing each other off behind them. Iâm talking about Black womenâs blood flowing in the streets â and how do we get a 14-year-old boy to know I am not the legitimate target of his fury? The boot is on both of our necks. Letâs talk about getting it off. My blood will not wash out your horror. Thatâs what Iâm interested in getting across to adolescent Black boys.
There are little Black girl children having babies. But this is not an immaculate conception, so weâve got little Black boys who are making babies, too. We have little Black children making little Black children. I want to deal with that so our kids will not have to repeat that waste of themselves.
JB: I hear you â but let me backtrack, for better or worse. You know, for whatever reason and whether itâs wrong or right, for generations men have come into the world, either instinctively knowing or believing or being taught that since they were men they in one way or another had to be responsible for the women and children, which means the universe.
AL: Mm-hm.
JB: I donât think thereâs any way around that.
AL: Any way around that now?
JB: I donât think thereâs any way around that fact.
AL: If we can put people on the moon and we can blow this whole planet up, if we can consider digging 18 inches of radioactive dirt off of the Bikini atolls and somehow finding something to do with it â if we can do that, we as Black cultural workers can somehow begin to turn that stuff around â because thereâs nobody anymore buying âcave politicsâ â âKill the mammoth or else the species is extinct.â We have moved beyond that. Those little scrubby-ass kids in the sixth grade â I want those Black kids to know that brute force is not a legitimate way of dealing across sex difference. I want to set up some different paradigms.
JB: Yea, but thereâs a real difference between the way a man looks at the worldâŠ
AL: Yes, yesâŠ
JB: And the way a woman looks at the world. A woman does know much more than a man.
AL: And why? For the same reason Black people know what white people are thinking: because we had to do it for our survivalâŠ
JB: All right, all rightâŠ
AL: Weâre finished being bridges. Donât you see? Itâs not Black women who are shedding Black menâs blood on the street â yet. Weâre not cleaving your head open with axes. Weâre not shooting you down. Weâre saying, âListen, whatâs going on between us is related to whatâs going on between us and other people,â but we have to solve our own shit at the same time as weâre protecting our Black asses, because if we donât, we are wasting energy that we need for joint survival.
JB: Iâm not even disagreeing â but if you put the argument in that way, you see, a man has a certain story to tell, too, just because he is a manâŠ
AL: Yes, yes, and itâs vital that I be alive and able to listen to it.
JB: Yes. Because we are the only hope we have. A family quarrel is one thing; a public quarrel is another. And you and I, you know â in the kitchen, with the kids, with each other or in bed â we have a lot to deal with, with each other, but weâve got to know what weâre dealing with. And there is no way around it. There is no way around it. Iâm a man. I am not a woman.
AL: Thatâs right, thatâs right.
JB: No one will turn me into a woman. Youâre a woman and youâre not a man. No one will turn you into a man. And we are indispensable for each other, and the children depend on us both.
AL: Itâs vital for me to be able to listen to you, to hear what is it that defines you and for you to listen to me, to hear what is it that defines me â because so long as we are operating in that old pattern, it doesnât serve anybody, and it certainly hasnât served us.
JB: I know that. What I really think is that neither of us has anything to prove, at least not in the same way, if we werenât in the North American wilderness. And the inevitable dissension between brother and sister, between man and woman â letâs face it, all those relations which are rooted in love also are involved in this quarrel. Because our real responsibility is to endlessly redefine each other. I cannot live without you, and you cannot live without me â and the children canât live without us.
AL: But we have to define ourselves for each other. We have to redefine ourselves for each other because no matter what the underpinnings of the distortion are, the fact remains that we have absorbed it. We have all absorbed this sickness and ideas in the same way we absorbed racism. Itâs vital that we deal constantly with racism, and with white racism among Black people â that we recognize this as a legitimate area of inquiry. We must also examine the ways that we have absorbed sexism and heterosexism. These are the norms in this dragon we have been born into â and we need to examine these distortions with the same kind of openness and dedication that we examine racismâŠ
JB: You use the word âracismââŠ
AL: The hatred of Black, or colorâŠ
JB: - but beneath the word âracismâ sleeps the word âsafety.â Why is it important to be white or Black?
AL: Why is it important to be a man rather than a woman?
JB: In both cases, it is assumed that it is safer to be white than to be Black. And itâs assumed that it is safer to be a man than to be a woman. These are both masculine assumptions. But those are the assumptions that weâre trying to overcome or to confrontâŠ
AL: To confront, yeah. The vulnerability that lies behind those masculine assumptions is different for me and you, and we must begin to look at thatâŠ
JB: Yes, yesâŠ
AL: And the fury that is engendered in the denial of that vulnerability â we have to break through it because there are children growing up believe that it is legitimate to shed female blood, right? I have to break through it because those boys really think that the sign of their masculinity is impregnating a sixth grader. I have to break through it because of that little sixth-grade girl who believes that the only thing in life she has is what lies between her legsâŠ
JB: Yeah, but weâre not talking now about men and women. Weâre talking about a particular society. Weâre talking about a particular time and place. You were talking about the shedding of Black blood in the streets, but I donât understand â
AL: Okay, the cops are killing the men and the men are killing the women. Iâm talking about rape. Iâm talking about murder.
JB: Iâm not disagreeing with you, but I do think youâre barking up the wrong tree. Iâm not trying to get the Black man off the hook â or Black women, for that matter â but I am talking about the kingdom in which we live.
AL: Yes, I absolutely agree; the kingdom in which these distortions occur has to be changed.
JB: Something happens to the man who beats up a lady. Something happens to the man who beats up his grandmother. Something happens to the junkie. I know that very well. I walked the streets of Harlem; I grew up there, right? Now you know it is not the Black catâs fault who sees me and tries to mug me. I got to know that. Itâs his responsibility but itâs not his fault. Thatâs a nuance. UI got to know that itâs not him who is my enemy even when he beats up his grandmother. His grandmother has got to know. Iâm trying to say oneâs got to see what drove both of us into those streets. We be both from the same track. Do you see what I mean? Iâve come home myself, you know, wanting to beat up anything in sight- but Audre, AudreâŠ
AL: Iâm here, Iâm hereâŠ
JB: I agree with you. I see exactly what you mean and it hurts me at least as much as it hurts you. But how to maneuver oneself past this point â how not to lose him or her who may be in what is in effect occupied territory. That is really what the Black situation is in this country. For the ghetto, all that is lacking is barbed wire, and when you pen people up like animals, the intention is to debase them and you have debased them.
AL: Jimmy, we donât have an argument
JB: I know we donât.
AL: But what we do have is a real disagreement about your responsibility not just to me but to my son and to our boys. Your responsibility to him is to get across to him in a way that I never will be able to because he did not come out of my body and has another relationship to me. Your relationship to him as his farther is to tell him Iâm not a fit target for his fury.
JB: Okay, okayâŠ
AL: Itâs so entrenched in him that itâs part of him as much as his Blackness is.
JB: All right, all rightâŠ
AL: I canât do it. You have to.
JB: All right, I accept â the challenge is there in any case. It never occurred to me that it would be otherwise. Thatâs absolutely true. I simply want to locate where the danger isâŠ
AL: Yeah, weâre at warâŠ
JB: We are behind the gates of a kingdom which is determined to destroy us.
AL: Yes, exactly so. And Iâm interested in seeing that we do not accept terms that will help us destroy each other. And I think one of the ways in which we destroy each other is by being programmed to knee-jerk on our differences. Knee-jerk on sex. Knee-jerk on sexualityâŠ
JB: I donât quite know what to do about it, but I agree with you. And I understand exactly what you mean. Youâre quite right. We get confused with genders â you know, what the western notion of woman is, which is not necessarily what a woman is at all. Itâs certainly not the African notion of what a woman is. Or even the European notion of what a woman is. And thereâs certainly not standard of masculinity in this country which anybody can respect. Part of the horror of being a Black American is being trapped into being an imitation of an imitation.
AL: I canât tell you what I wished you would be doing. I canât redefine masculinity. I canât redefine Black masculinity certainly. I am in the business of redefining Black womanness. You are in the business of redefining Black masculinity. And Iâm saying, âHey, please go on doing it,â because I donât know how much longer I can hold this fort, and I really feel that Black women are holding it and weâre beginning to hold it in ways that are making this dialogue less possible.
JB: Really? Why do you say that? I donât feel that at all. It seems to me youâre blaming the Black man for the trap heâs in.
AL: Iâm not blaming the Black man; Iâm saying donât shed my blood. Iâm not blaming the Black man. Iâm saying if my blood is being shed, at some point Iâm gonna have a legitimate reason to take up a knife and cut your damn head off, and Iâm not trying to do it.
JB: If you drive a man mad, youâll turn him into a beast â it has nothing to do with his color.
AL: If you drive a woman insane, she will react like a beast too. There is a larger structure, a society with which we are in total and absolute war. We live in the mouth of a dragon, and we must be able to use each otherâs forces to fight it together, because we need each other. I am saying that in our joint battle we have also developed some very real weapons, and when we turn them against each other they are even more bloody, because we know each other in a particular way. When we turn those weapons against each other, the bloodshed is terrible. Even worse, we are doing this in a structure where we are already embattled. I am not denying that. It is a family discussion Iâm having now. Iâm not laying blame. I do not blame Black men for what they are. Iâm asking them to move beyond. I do not blame Black men; what Iâm saying is, we have to take a new look at the ways in which we fight our joint oppression because if we donât, weâre gonna be blowing each other up. We have to begin to redefine the terms of what woman is, what man is, how we relate to each other.
JB: But that demands redefining the terms of the western worldâŠ
AL: And both of us have to do it; both of us have to do itâŠ
JB: But you donât realize that in this republic the only real crime is to be a Black man?
AL: No, I donât realize that. I realize the only crime is to be Black. I realize the only crime is to be Black, and that includes me too.
JB: A Black man has a prick, they hack it off. A Black man is a ****** when he tries to be a model for his children and he tries to protect his women. That is a principal crime in this republic. And every Black man knows it. And every Black woman pays for it. And every Black child. How can you be so sentimental as to blame the Black man for a situation which has nothing to do with him?
AL: You still havenât come past blame. Iâm not interested in blame, Iâm interested in changingâŠ
JB: May I tell you something? May I tell you something? I might be wrong or right.
AL: I donât know â tell me.
JB: Do you know what happens to a man-?
AL: How can I know what happens to a man?
JB: Do you know what happens to a man when heâs ashamed of himself when he canât find a job? When his socks stink? When he canât protect anybody? When he canât do anything? Do you know what happens to a man when he canât face his children because heâs ashamed of himself? Itâs not like being a womanâŠ
AL: No, thatâs right. Do you know what happens to a woman who gives birth, who puts that child out there and has to go out and hook to feed it? Do you know what happens to a woman who goes crazy and beats her kids across the room because sheâs so full of frustration and anger? Do you know what that is? Do you know what happens to a lesbian who sees her woman and her child beaten on the street while six other guys are holding her? Do you know what that feels like?
JB: Mm-hm.
AL: Well then, in the same way you know how a woman feels, I know how a man feels, because it comes down to human beings being frustrated and distorted because we canât protect the people we love. So now letâs start â
JB: All right, okayâŠ
AL: - letâs start with that and deal.
Essence Magazine, 1984
Itâs a sick irony that the money HRC takes to fund its new work in the Third World is made off the backs of Third World suffering. Itâs even worse when HRCâs PR machine colludes with the New York Times to whitewash â pinkwash â Singerâs record of destruction. Itâs politically disastrous for an LGBT group to operate this way. Theyâre sending a message to governments in the developing world that the US really does see LGBT people as a privileged class, and is willing to promote their rights while condoning the immiseration of whole populations.
Ceremony of the Eagles and Jaguars
âThe eight-hour ceremony began at the crack of dawn, when elders set a large bonfire at the parkâs center. Participants, hailing from across the state, tossed tobacco into the flames to give thanks, letting the smoke rise up.â
Read more at the Sacramento Bee
Photo credit: Héctor Amezcua, SacBee
un poco de gracia
he calls again almost as if on cue/queue and this time, i answer and we talk shit because that's how we do most naturally and we do that until we run out of significant things to say and we breathe into our small talk probably imagining similar things while we pretend to talk about the movies i like and the ones you fall asleep too until i tell you i need to finish my drink.
you promise to call me later but i know that you won't and i return to the bar with its shiny surface and half-wet napkins and i wonder about the light-skinned Colombian woman in the black blazer sitting next to me who has been abandoned by her older suitor in the last ten minutes and has taken up rum over wine until she says un poco de gracia and slides away into the night
AaaaaaandâŠâŠ. weâre back!
Quercus Agrifolia is back and better than ever.
We have issues ready to go from Issue 1 that looks at the story of Tongva healer and resistance leader Toypurina, to Issue 3 that explores that history of the LA River, to Issue 6 that examines the impact Audre Lorde has had on intersectional organizing, to Issue 8 that traces the history of industrialized citrus agriculture.Â
Stay tuned for links to download each individual issue.
You can always get a physical copy by emailing us at [email protected]
There are conventions around writing and writing pedagogy that have been in popular circulation for years, such that when you think about how to write or why you write, these conventions often flutter around the edge of your consciousness, even if you explicitly position yourself as a radical/subversive/outsider writer, what have you. Things like, âWrite what you know.â Or: âShow, donât tell.â But when I think of the kind of decolonial writing practices and decolonized writing pedagogy I need and look for and want to circulate, I often think that I would have wanted to hear something different, as a young reader whose white school teachers never believed that she read the books she read (such that I started inventing âappropriateâ young adult books and writing fake book reports about them, which were unanimously believed, as opposed to my previous truthful book reports about Beckett or whatever), as a young writer whose white teachers always disdained and delegitimized the things she wrote (too long, too detailed, too minimalist, prove you know these words).
I would have wanted to hear something more like, Write what you donât know, about what you know. Write what you havenât been allowed to know, or call knowledge, about what you know and feel and live. Show what you canât bear to tell. Tell what you canât bear to show. Show that which exceeds your ability to tell it. Tell that which exceeds your ability to show it. Sometimes I can write about a wound, but the idea of showing it to my motherâsaying: this is where it happenedâis completely unthinkable. Sometimes I can only show a scene in a written passage, which, if asked to describe in conversation, I would never find the words or ways to articulate. The idea of integration in all things is of course romantic, but at heart, the ways weâIâsurvive are not primarily romantic. We also compartmentalize because we know weâre not safe everywhere, and that most places are only safe for certain parts of us. These are often the same places thatâll deny we ever had a reason to feel unsafe, erased, othered. As Junot DĂaz said in this interview with Hilton Als:
Weâre so erased⊠I mean, you know this, itâs like, if youâre a person of color, if youâre a woman, if youâre from a poor family, if youâre from a rural family, if youâre from like a family who work like dogs and never got any respect or share of the profits, you know that 99% of your stories ainât been told. In any fuckinâ medium. And yet we still have to be taught to look and to tell our stories. For many of us, thatâs something that we have to, like, stumble our way through. You know, despite the utter absence of us, itâs still an internal revolution to say, Wait a minute. We are not only, like, worthy of great art, but the source of great art. For many of us, it takes a lot of work to get there.
When I think about writing, I think mostly about silences, erasures, oblivions and misremembrances, pockets of inarticulacy, things that are nameless in me, which might touch or be touched by things that are nameless in others. Most of us are not, in fact, storytellersâor at least, weâre not only storytellers. My parents were storytellers, I thinkâthey were immigrants who used stories to make sense of their obliterated diasporic lives, and most of those stories were incomplete or revisionist or elaborated to the point of mythology. But if Iâm ever to be a storyteller, itâll have to be in relation to also being a silence-teller, a silence-reader. That our lives are often incomprehensible to us is also part of colonialityâs legacy: we were never meant to be able to put all these splintered-apart and de-formed things back together. And the attempt to gain any understanding of our lives only using colonialityâs institutions will always be inadequate, because the matter of our histories and how we live in themâhow they live in usâare archives that exceed the logic of archiving. âWrite what you knowââbut even knowing what you knowânot repressing it, or having it repressed for you through dominant cultureâs macro- and micro-violences of imperial and colonial knowledge-consolidation, in which knowledge exists only as institution, as legitimating forceâis a miracle, and a privilege. Most of my family history is entirely based on not knowing what they know, what they felt, what they lived. So is most of the yet-to-be-decolonized history weâre taught. Think of the quote from the AimĂ© CĂ©saire play, A Tempest that ends Audre Lordeâs âThe Masterâs Tools Will Never Dismantle the Masterâs Houseâ:
Prospero, you are the master of illusion. Lying is your trademark. And you have lied so much to me (Lied about the world, lied about me) That you have ended by imposing on me An image of myself. Underdeveloped, you brand me, inferior, Thatâs the way you have forced me to see myself I detest that image! Whatâs more, itâs a lie! But now I know you, you old cancer, And I know myself as well.
Decolonial knowing has to also encompass the parts of our knowing that are more like unknowing, the parts of our knowing that are unresolved and incalculable, yet still plentiful with information: with the weight and force of wordless, nameless, faceless things that in-form us, that shape us, that are the shape of our lives. Knowing what you know, knowing that there are knowledges which are never counted, never mind recorded, as knowledgesâthis is really the beginning of a decolonial writing. What Iâm interested in is, how do you write what you werenât allowed to know about what you know? How do you write what nobody wants to know about what you know? And especially, how do you write what nobody wants you to know about what you know?
"The growth of cynicism in American society may say less about the reputed apathy of the populace than it might about the bankruptcy of the old political languages and the need for a new language and vision for clarifying intellectual, ethical and political projects, especially as they work to reframe questions of agency, ethics and meaning for a substantive democracy."
"He was going to stab me, so I had to push it." - Civil Rights activist Gloria Richardson. Watch her whole interview about women activists at the March on Washington here.Â
Lessons of the Escuelita Zapatista 1. It is possible to defeat the social policies. 2. Autonomy. 3. Collective Work. 4. New Political Culture 5. The Mirror
Read more by following the link to the Upside Down World article
Found from various places online:
The Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire
Angela Y. Davis - Are Prisons Obsolete?
Angela Y. Davis - Race, Women, and Class
The Communist Manifesto - Marx and Engels
Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde
Three Guineas by...
Hoy se celebra el 114 aniversario del nacimiento de Rufino Tamayo.
until the age of five i refused to wear anything but floral print â something about the pink, the purple the jeweled and bedazzled, the lisa frank brought me closer to my sister: she the one iâd tell everyone i wanted to be when i grew up (still do) never learned how to pee standing...
I see 20 year old queers online making friends and exploring and being sure of themselves and I think of the 20 year old queers I donât see because theyâre stuck in little villages like mine and they probably donât know theyâre queer, havenât decided theyâre trans, donât know what transitioning is...
A "rural queer" search on tumblr brings up, literally, two posts. TWO.
I'm holding this close today as I continue to write about the state of the rural South and the lives of queer people in it...I hold and manifest this urgency to move energy, move resources as I write because it matters. Rural Queer Southern people matter.
Now there are three. Tomorrow there will be four. Together we build.Â
Here are some images of the residency. The bottom lower corner is the residency room with the bed and work station. There is also an artist nook in the kitchen area. Pardon the dust and mess from rearranging the house for incoming artists.Â
My friend Jon Henry is running a new artist in residency out of Harrisonburg. Get at him or the Tumblr site for more info about how to participate.Â
"I am Jamaican and Korfa is Somali. Neither of our families knows that weâre two men who love each other. When weâre together there is a sense of solace, a lack of fear. In the stickiness of city summer nights we open the windows wide, light incense. We make love and we forget."
Diriye Osman, âFairytales For Lost Children" (available to pre-order here).
Diriye Osman is photographed by Boris Mitkov.