ゴキ

[gokiburi]

wondering why I rarely feel the urge to take photographs in Berlin?

[rosegoldlips]

ur personality is defined by ur favorite line in hallelujah

[rosegoldlips]

tag your favorite line of hallelujah

[gokiburi]

Views from a beautiful vacation to Gran Canarias, Spain and Lisbon, Portugal last week.

[gokiburi]

Mulata Exportation

This is a two-part translation, first from Portuguese to Spanish, then from Spanish to English, of the poem Mulata Exportação by Elisa Lucinda. I came across this poem many months ago and it reminded me immediately of the work of Jeannette Miller, a Dominican poet who also works on themes of blackness. I finally got around to polishing up the translations, although this is the first time I have ever translated from Portuguese and the first time I've translated into Spanish -- I apologize in advance for the errors that are certain to be found within the texts.

Mulata Exportación

"Pero que negra más linda Y de ojos verdes ¡Ojos de veneno y azúcar! Ven negra, ven a ser mi disculpa Ven, que aquí dentro cabes todavía Ven a ser mi coartada, mi bella conducta Ven, negra exportación, ¡ven mi pan de azúcar! (Monto casa pa'tí pero nadie puede saberlo, ¿entiendes mi dendê?)1 Mi mareo, mi historia contusa Mi memoria confusa, mi fútbol, ¿entiendes mi gelol?2 Bambolea bien mi bienquerida, soy tu improvisación, tu karaoke; Ven negra, sin que yo tenga que hacer nada. Ven sin que yo tenga que moverme Conmigo te olvidas de tareas, favelas, cabañas de esclavos, nada más va a doler. Huelo un olor dulce, mi maculelé, ven negra, ámame, coloréeme3 Ven a ser mi folclore, ven a ser mi tesis sobre el negro malê.4 Ven, negra, ven a agotarme, después te llevo a bailar samba." Imaginen: Oí todo eso sin calma y sin dolor. Ya preso este antiguo capataz, yo dije: "su delegado..." Y el delegado guiñó. Hablé con el juez, el juez se insinuó y decretó una pequeña pena con celda especial por ser éste un blanco intelectual... Yo dije: "Señor Juez, ¡no sirve de nada! Opresión, Barbaridad, Genocidio nada de esto se cura follando con una morenita!" Ay, mi ley suprema, dejen las tonterías No va a ser un blanco mal resuelto que va a liberar a una negra:

Ese blanco agrio está condenado porque no es con la labia del pseudo-oprimido que va a aliviar su pasado. Mira aquí mi señor: Yo me acuerdo de la cabaña de esclavos y tú te acuerdas de la casa hacienda y vamos juntos a escribir sinceramente otra historia Digo, repito y no miento: Vamos a sacar en limpio esta verdad porque no es bailando samba que yo te redimo y yo te acredito: A ver si te distancias, no invierta, no insista! ¡Mi náusea! ¡Mi cebo cultural! ¡Mi lavado de latas!

Porque dejar de ser racista, mi amor, ¡no es tirarse a una mulata!

Mulata Exportation

"Say, what a pretty black girl And with green eyes, too Eyes of venom and sugar! Come negra, come be my excuse Come, there's still room for you in here. Come be my alibi, my beautiful conduct Come, black exportation, come my sweet buns! (I'm building a house for you but no one can know, you understand, my dendê?)5 My dizziness, my bruised history My confused memory, my soccer, do you get it, my gelol?6 Shake lovely my beloved, I'm your improvisation, your karaoke; Come negra, without me doing anything. Come without me having to move. With me you forget about to-do's, favelas, slave quarters, nothing more will hurt. I smell a sweet fragrance, my maculelé, come negra, love me, color me7 Come be my folklore, come be my thesis on the malê negro.8 Come, negra, come wear me out, afterwards I'll take you out samba dancing." Imagine: I heard all of this without calm and without pain. Already jailed this ex-captain, I said: "His deputy..." And the deputy winked. I spoke with the judge, and the judge took a pass at me and decreed a small punishment with a special cell since he was a white intellectual… I said: "Mr. Judge, it's no use! Oppression, Barbarism, Genocide none of this is cured by sleeping with a morenita! Oh, my supreme law, enough with the nonsense It won't be an unresolved white man who ends up liberating a black woman:

This bitter white man is condemned because it's not the glibness of the pseudo-oppressed that will alleviate him of his past. Look here, mister: I remember the slave quarters and you remember the plantation house and together we'll sincerely write another history I say, repeat and I do not lie: We're going to expose this truth cause it ain't for your dancing samba that I'll redeem and accredit you Let's see if you step away, don't invest, don't insist! My nausea! My cultural bait! My washing of tins!

Because not being a racist anymore, my love, is not done by fucking a mulata!

Dendê: aceite de palma de color marrón, asociado en Brasil con la gastronomía de la región de Bahia. Aquí sirve como apodo para destacar la negritud del apóstrofe lírico. Más sobre el significado cultural del dendê: Tésis: De dendê e baianidade: A mercadoria de restaurantes de comida baiana em Salvador ↩︎

gelol: marca de ungüento medicinal. ↩︎

maculelé: danza de roda afro-brasileña. ↩︎

malê: término para designar a los esclavos africanos musulmanes, quienes montaron una revuelta en Bahia, Brasil ↩︎

dendê: a palm oil of dark brown color, associated with the cuisine of the Bahia region in Brazil. Here, it serves to underline the blackness of the addressee. There's a great thesis (in Portuguese) about the cultural significance of dendê: De dendê e baianidade: A mercadoria de restaurantes de comida baiana em Salvador ↩︎

gelol: a brand of Bengay-like medical ointment in Brazil. ↩︎

maculelé: an Afro-Brazilian dance performed in a 'roda,' or circle similar to Capoeira. ↩︎

malê: a term derived from Yoruba to designate Mulsims, specifically African slaves of this confession in Brazil. The malê of Bahia incited a slave uprising. ↩︎

[gokiburi]

Hey (cover) by Nilüfer Yanya.

[gokiburi]

transition.

There are a few things that I missed or slacked on in 2016 that I hope to have time for this year:

Writing a summary of all the books I read in the year, for one.

Translating poetry, fiction, non-fiction -- anything that catches my attention and I feel needs to be read by more of the world.

Updating my academic blog with more of what I spend so much of my youth on.

No doubt, last year was a productive one; I learned a new language, traveled to new places and moved between three continents.

All the same, this year brings new challenges:

Writing my masters thesis.

Finding a real job.

Holding on as deeply as possible to the things that make me, me.

Here's to doing the very best we can.

[gokiburi]

Places & Faces.

[milchgesicht]

Moving Forward

By the time I fell asleep only a few states had been called in Trump’s favor: typical reds, nothing to worry about.

I woke up to my doorbell ringing at 7am as the construction company came by to survey the rooms and make small repairs. Texts from friends in the US put a pit in my stomach, and I rapidly searched online for the latest updates. Turns out I had woken up just in time to watch Trump’s victory solidify: first a 6% chance for Hillary to still pull out a win, then 0% – then CNN announcing the election. Then Trump, dowdy and self-inspired, announcing his win with a weak appeal towards ‘bringing the nation together.’ A speech made in New York City to a crowd of young, white men with too much confidence and red baseball caps. Young white men shouting, “U-S-A” in the same fashion they adopt at drunken house parties near the fourth of July. A kind of war cry rather than a gathering one.

And now we have to deal with it all – because we certainly can’t sit back and blow sighs between our lips saying that the idiots have won. Already fragile accomplishments are at real risk now: a semblance of understanding between communities divided along race and class lines, the positive social policing of racism, judicial stays against unconstitutional state actions. Those are all at threat in this developing environment, and with no Democratic control in the Senate civil society is going to be evermore critical in holding on to moral convictions against an ingress of white nationalism living under the banner of Trump-legitimacy and validation.

So I am certainly disappointed and even alienated by the outcomes of this election, but I don’t think it is morally acceptable for me and people like me to write off America. It’s not responsible to find safe haven in my privilege of living abroad, in knowing that I don’t have to potentially return to live in the aftermath of a Trump presidency. I can’t shirk my responsibility to the very groups whose lives have just been submerged in even more insecurity, minority groups soon to be living under the specter of a man with no political experience who openly defames their presence and characters. I’m allowing myself some time for regrouping, coping and most of all for having to face the onslaught of questions because I am the American in most of my classes. And then it’s going to be time to sit down and think of the groups with whom I can work to maintain a forward-facing approach to the real issues of our time.

[gokiburi]

Holes around the collar, a missing button, tattered edges. I’ve moved between three continents, downsizing my belongings each year. And every time I throw out the old I can’t bring myself to toss this shirt that reminds me of you. The shirt I had in extra large and you in extra small. So it finds its way into my bags each time.

[allofberlin]

S-Bahnhof Bornholmer Straße, Gesundbrunnen, Wedding, Berlin

[gokiburi]

Soon.

[gokiburi]

I'm not sure why my mind is hooked on this song, but I guess it only makes sense to be caught on a song about summer in the wintertime during the summertime.

"The white-crowned sounds of possible The sound that lures me It says, 'Don't you hurry don't you worry, kid. We'll be seeing you We'll see you when you're ready.'"

Something about a coming chill -- fall in the northern hemisphere. // Here I would insert an adjective [veranal], but it sounds and looks ugly in English, because it doesn't exist. And even with thoughts fixed on autumnal winds and bleak snow-covered winter, there's a summer in the 'white-crowned sounds of possible.'

August 23rd, 2016

I bought a ticket to see Keaton Henson in the Passionskirche in Berlin. I imagine myself that Wednesday night in late October, pulling on a sweater or zipping up a light jacket and walking quietly down the steps of the staircase in my apartment building, walking out onto the sidewalk and making my way towards the tram, or subway, or bus. Sticking headphones in my ears and walking, a bit chilled by the wind. It's a bit awkward to stand outside by myself, and groups of friends and dates are in line ahead of me and behind me. Most people are speaking in German, and I feel a little let down that I haven't met a friend to attend with me yet. But it's alright - and the music is wonderful, and I walk back home with my headphones in.

[gokiburi]

Back Home

On the second of August I woke up early, rising out of a sweaty hostel bunk bed and pulling my meager belongings together: a duffel bag over-stuffed with summer clothes and a heavy backpack. I walked down the hill and sat in the lobby of the express ferry that would soon take me across the sea to the airport where I would board an eleven hour flight back to the United States. It was a long flight, but in just half of a day an entire year of experiences was brought to a close -- neatly zipped up. 

I’ve already been back in the US for two weeks now. At first I was overwhelmed by the choices and nostalgias tucked into each corner of immense and frigid grocery stores. For the moment I feel settled, although my trajectory continues on towards Berlin in just a few weeks. The last few months of my year in Turkey were too hectic to want to detail in written word: a two-week summer school on Forced Migration, a failed coup attempt, weeks of closely monitoring the news. It was a night to remember and a year to recount when everything feels a little more distanced. 

 I hope to have a chance to write a bit about my experiences at the summer school, but I am also enjoying the chance to relax and catch up with friends and family before my Next Big Move. There I’ll be finishing my Masters program as well as writing my thesis, completing two internships and finally looking for a Serious Adult Job. 

 In lieu of a developed text post on an interesting topic, here are some of my favorite pictures from Turkey. 

 Looking out onto the cove, Olympos. 

Landing in Tekirova

Koç University Campus Garden

Beach Bums, Olympus

[milchgesicht]

This is how it began. Sitting with two friends on Istanbul’s northern Black Sea coast, watching the sunset and, per Facebook upload, “feeling peaceful”. There seems to always be a calm before the storm. But it wasn’t really - minutes after taking this photo a beach side disco began to pump electro hits from its dancefloor; there’s never too much calm in this country. Life as usual.

At 10:30 we make our way back to the bus stop to ride back to the city. By 11 o’ clock we’re rumbling through the last few stretches of forest left in Istanbul; Anna receives a call on her cellphone from a Turkish friend warning of some odd activity in the city: the bridges connecting the Asian and European sides are blocked. We are well trained for the announcement of odd situations and immediately begin to skim through Turkish news websites. As usual, there’s not much more detail to be found there yet, and we cycle through different sources: German news agencies that only repeated the closure of bridges, Twitter and Facebook. Already we were considering the possibilities: an anti-terror mobilization or, with more of a chuckle, another coup?

We see a video posted to Twitter of a soldier on one of Istanbul’s bridges telling a civilian to ‘go to your home, this is serious.’ We attempt to translate the caption: “Komutanin soyledikleri…darbe kesin.” They’ve given the command… the ??? is definite. We struggle over that unfamiliar noun. We don’t want to jump to conclusions. Then a friend receives a message via WhatsApp - tanks rolling through Ankara. We look at each other: Yep, the coup is in progress. Fuck. But we are also nervous joking and already planning. I remind my friend of the time in the Fall semester when, in a course on the modernization process of Turkey, our professor asked us what Turkey might need in order to finally consolidate it’s democracy. A fellow student offered up “another coup,” and the whole class laughed. No, our teacher responded, that isn’t possible anymore. Those times are over.

Our bus arrives to the end of the metro line and we hurriedly descend the five flights of escalators and board the train, with worried about being trapped in route. By this time the coup has been confirmed by the Prime Minister, and everyone seems uneasy but cool. A few men sitting across from us are discussing the news that they’ve read so far. At the next station we hear a shout as the doors close and everyone jumps in their seats. A group of young men had almost missed the train; the man across from us jokes, “Don’t shout for God’s sake, we’re all frightened” and the whole train erupts in laughter. And we are all frightened.

When we resurface twenty minutes later we immediately notice that the main throughway near my apartment is blocked off, police vehicles and officers facing the military’s armored trucks and soldiers. Neither side is doing or saying much, just turning back approaching vehicles. We enter my apartment and survey: no water and little food. I charge my phone and finally have an opportunity to text my parents and let them know what’s going on. We decide to move to my friend’s apartment in Cihangir where there is food and water. I rush into my room, upend my backpack on my bed and then fill it with clothes, deodorant, a book. My passport, laptop. As I am swiftly packing things away I am immediately aware of my fear, and yet I know I am in a much better position than nearly all people who have ever packed their necessities into a bag with the pressure of escape breathing down their necks. That slightly-bent blue booklet will spare me from intentional harm.

We lock up and leave, flagging down taxis that each ask our destination. As soon as they realize that the trip will require passing by Taksim square they spit out a sorry and speed on by us. The third driver offers up an explanation: the roads are all blockaded. They can only drive towards the shore. So we regroup and determine our best course of action is to try and buy some snacks and water and to turn back to my house. A confused man asks us in English what is going on, and we explain that the military is trying to take over the state. We tell him to go home and he asks how, he’s driven his car here.

Inside we turn on the television and sit down, pouring ourselves a drink. We are surrounded by media and yet we hear very little of substance. It’s already nearly one and TRT, the state-run news broadcaster, is off the air. Then President Erdoğan is addressing the country via FaceTime - his unclear image on an iPhone, a microphone held up to the speakers to try and capture his statement. He condemns cowardly acts, he says he will be here with the people, he calls them to the streets in protest against the coup.

Soon after we’re hearing shouting and shooting from the streets, our friends in Ankara are sending videos of F-16s swooping over the city, leaving deep roars echoing behind them. Every time I hear shouts outside I rush to the window and watch: men are walking up the street, pressing at wounds with white t-shirts stained in red blood. Police vehicles, normal patrol cars and armored trucks, are racing down the road towards the sound of machine gun fire towards the coast.

I sit back down and flip through the four or five news channels, most of them playing the same clips: Turkish citizens climbing on top of tanks, slapping and berating baby-faced soldiers with their hands up in surrender. Police are watching, sometimes intervening when things seem to be too rough. Then a live feed, also via FaceTime, of a parliamentarian and her co-workers trapped inside the nation’s congress. The sound of explosions pass through the phone at odd intervals; later we learn they’re being bombed by helicopter.

A shot rings out much louder, much closer than before. Stupidly I jump to stick my head out of the window - a man flees down the stairs along the road I live on. Four shots, I yell “shit!” and duck instinctively. As I yell out for my friends to stay away from the windows I can’t keep myself from watching. My hands are shaking and I’m trying to open my camera to record what’s taking place. He’s tumbling down the stairs and another shot rings out. I yell, “Oh god, he’s going to die” and the police officers catch up to his rolling body, kicking him over the curb onto the street. I’m narrating the events into my phone and then realize I haven’t pressed record. As I begin recording they’re picking him up, or perhaps he is standing, and they walk him up the road. They must have been rubber bullets - I hope.

I sit down again and the news coverage continues. CNN Türk’s anchor is calmly speaking into the camera, reporting that a helicopter has landed in the garden of their studio and that armed soldiers are forcing themselves into the studio room. We see them walking in the background, then the anchors are brought off camera.

The voices of citizens outside are screaming, “Allahu ekber, darbeye hayır!” (God is great, no to the coup!) and we speculate about the future of this country if the coup should fail, as the newly freed TRT broadcast is claiming it has. We now hear jets making their own passes over Istanbul and we don’t know if they belong to the putschists or those loyal to the government. Suddenly the floor shakes and three consecutive explosions sound. We cower towards the floor and then rush to the windows to look for the burning target. We think we’re being bombarded - I text my dad and he reassures me that they’ve only reported bombings in Ankara. An hour later after searching Twitter for further reports it’s suggested that these are just sonic booms from the low-flying jets breaking the sound barrier. I am relieved and surprised to consider that I am looking up Wikipedia articles on sonic booms as jets sweep the skies over a NATO member-country. I see horrible footage of civilians who have been torn into pieces by heavy caliber rounds shot from helicopters in Ankara. I wish I hadn’t opened that link.

It’s almost 6am now and things seem to be more certain: the coup is being fought back. Crowds at the airport are cheering and soldiers are loaded into police busses, having surrendered. These busses are attacked, stoned by angry citizens. Two more sonic blasts shake our windows and we decide to go to sleep.

I wake up at 8am and begin watching TV again - there are self-congratulatory speeches by prominent politicians and video of soldiers being detained across the country. A conflict remains active in Ankara as police and regime-loyal soldiers surround the Naval headquarters. Soldiers are stripped of their helmets, guns, vests and shirts and marched down streets, into more busses. Photos emerge of Turks beating soldiers with their hands cuffed in zip ties behind their backs. Men beating these soldiers with belts as police watch. By the end of the day, everything seems over. The only oddity being the continued calls for citizens to flood the streets and celebrate their victory. I receive a text message from the Turkish Government informing me that all citizens are expected in the plazas at night. So we spend the night listening to the calls from mosques, the honking of horns and chants of 'Allahu ekber.’

Now it’s over, and it’s not over. Some soldiers are being rounded up still - more than 260 people left dead, thousands wounded and thousands of soldiers, judges and prosecutors are being detained across the country. The gun shots have mostly subsided, but it’s nowhere near over.

[gokiburi]

I love this picture because it looks like me (the way I feel I occupy space as a person) and I also really dislike it because it is how I look (the way I occupy space as a body). It's my softness and levity and also the fat in my cheeks and slump in my shoulders. Anyways, it's me.

[gokiburi]

This song and Andy Shauf's voice reminds me so strongly of a long-gone period of time: the years of high school filled with Eliott Smith, Bright Eyes, Paul Simon... I've been caught on this song for the last four or five days now, listening to it and singing along under my breath. Sitting on a ferry with my feet up, walking down the street. It's so incredibly odd to be transported back to a time that you can no longer distinctly remember; there are just vague feelings. I wouldn't call it a nostalgia and I don't long for those times. Instead, it seems that the more eerie bit is developing an understanding for just how much time has passed since then, just how little concrete memory holds.

[uha-uha]

NEW SONG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[gokiburi]

!!!!!!!!!

[sftn-deactivated20170702]

The Long, Tragic History of Violence at LGBTQ Clubs in America

The mass shooting at Orlando’s LGBT nightclub Pulse, which left at least 50 dead, is only the latest chapter in a long history of violence at LGBTQ bar ...

Of course, these attacks only punctuate the thousands of anti-LGBTQ hate crimes that occur in public—in schools and bathrooms and parks, on sidewalks and often in broad daylight—every year. Federal law did not explicitly criminalize anti-LGBTQ hate crimes until quite recently, as President George W. Bush had threatened to veto any legislation that outlawed hate crimes on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity. With President Barack Obama’s support, the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act finally passed in 2009. It drew just five Republican votes in the Senate, and its fiercest opponent, Republican Sen. Jeff Sessions, criticized his colleagues for merely caving to “the political cause of the moment.”

media discussion abt the Orlando shooting has focused on spinning an Orientalist n Islamophobic narrative, seeking to scapegoat Muslims n essentialize homophobia in their religious beliefs in an effort to avoid conversation abt America’s violently homophobic history n culture, n to position the US as a paragon of “tolerance” n “progress”

[gokiburi]

There's a deeper historical context to the hatred we see manifested in our world.