Look out! We'll getcha!
Last week we got a letter in the mail saying that our BlackLivesMatter yard signs were causing racial disharmony and that we'd lost a customer to Amazon. (I have more to say about how bassackwards that is, but for now, you can refer to this if you want.) (Mind, this is not the first person to claim that taking an anti-racist position is harmful. On Christmas Eve, a customer came in and spoke at our manager for upwards of ten minutes (on CHRISTMAS DAMN EVE) about how he didn't want to bring his children to the store anymore because he didn't feel that the message of BlackLivesMatter was appropriate for them. For his children. le sigh. But, there aren't that many people who have such terrible manners.)
One of the co-owners of the store decided to address the unsigned letter we received with a blog post that is thoughtful and personal and ends with a link to Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates, because yes.
The DailyKos wrote up an article and someone in the comments made a GRAPHIC thing!?!
KMOX did a piece also - which is kind of awesome, for real.
The post landed at HuffPost. ?!?!?
(So you know to avoid the comments, right? I mean, you could read the ones at The DailyKos, because they are kind of fantastic and the ones on the Facebook page are mostly alright, too, but, you know, be careful.)
The Post wrote that we sold out of BlackLivesMatter signs. We're also selling a ton of Ta-Nehisi Coates's new book. Which is freaking fantastic. Not that I've bought it yet. Or anything. *coughs*
What you won't see in these links or articles is that a different kind of conversation is happening in the store. The conversation about realizing how real it is that the default setting for white people is racist. As someone who works not to be, it is still startling when I am approached by white people who use coded language or arguments that are steeped in an unquestioned racism. It is so shocking, not because I am shocked that people are racist, but because the assumption is that as a white person I am actively engaged in my racism and approve of it.
Um. No.
It took having it pointed out for me to learn that as a person who grew up with white privilege in this country, I am inherently racist. It was a twitchy moment, because I'm special, so of course I'm not racist. *cough* Yep.
It was an awkward moment when I realized that there is nothing about not being racist that makes my words unracist. Nothing at all.
Not my lack of intent. Not my less-privileged-than-you upbringing. Not my feminism.
Whatever my beliefs, my privilege (something I may not choose, but must not deny) is built from a system of oppression and subjugation predicated on the belief that white skinned people are better. It is not the job of POC to educate me about racism. It is not the job of WOC to teach me to be an intersectional feminist. It is my job to do the work and to have the conversations.
Sometimes it is necessary to preach to the choir, a thing that can get dicey when you work at a place where people are fairly certain you always agree with them no matter what. The illusion of a cultural monolith is not limited to any political party. Oh no.
Another Left Bank conversation that is compelling is that one that tracks the progress of understanding. The one where we compare notes about when we articulated our many and varied problems with the privileged and obtuse notion of colorblindness. The one where none of us had to articulate or defend our use of #BlackLivesMatter specifically, along with #TransLivesMatter and #NativeLivesMatter and #AllBlackLivesMatter and #SayHerName - because it was apparent that the specificity was necessary, because every life does not matter in practice. The one where we all wonder what else we need to learn. The one where the books on our shelves speak clearly.
It creeps, this burden of responsibility. It creeps into conversation. It creeps into buying habits. It creeps into the search for acceptable pop culture. It creeps into relationships. It takes over.
We have muscles. We must use them. History weighs heavily. The work of carrying its burden should fall on all of us.
Friday, August 14, 2015
No, but really, take care of yourselves
August is literally the worst month ever.
Except for the part where some people got born, and they (well, one of them specifically) are amazing and loved and loving, of course.
Because mostly this is a shit month. Lots of people die. Lots of them. Some of the violently at the hands of the police. I don't know of any police that are held accountable for killing people. Neither does most anyone else. In some places, lots of people have come together to protest this. To protest systematic racism and utterly inequitable education, housing and economic opportunities. To protest the casual and constant racist rhetoric that accompanies the inequality. And now they are targets. Targets of micro and macro aggression. Targets of police, of twitter trolls, of violent racists whose words could very well mask no intent, but whose intent is as much to silence as it is to destroy.
People are suffering, and it is hard work. The reminders to do self-care, to do community-wide self-care are real and they are correct. Find a place to be, a place where you can be at rest for a little while and be there. Drink water. Eat. Sleep. Cry. Hug. Laugh. Watch a movie or a TV show. Play. Draw. Sing. Drink water. Take your meds.
And love.
This year, more than any before, I feel the strain of my appendectomy. Time to cry has been needed. Time to remember what it was to be in a hospital bed surrounded by people I never expected to be there. Time to consider how tremendous it is to be loved.
Self care as health insurance would have saved my body from the damage of the burst appendix. Self care as believing that my friends loved me and would care for me would have gotten me to the hospital sooner. Once I was released from the hospital self care as love challenged me to build a life founded on being as lovable as I was loved. Now self care is silence. Sometimes it is tearful awareness. It is patience. It is an absence of guilt. It is reading groups and making mistakes and riding my bike and appreciating that I live in a world where unaccompanied women of all kinds move about as if in no fear of attack. It is recognizing the racism in my privilege. It is taking deep breaths and learning to stop apologizing and start believing. It is choosing my pop culture.
There are no steps necessary between recognizing that I deserved better medical care and recognizing that everyone deserves better medical care. Except the part about understanding that medical care is not something that you earn, it is something to which you have the right. Only we live in a world where good health is a zero sum game, and only those who are worthy can achieve it, even after something as lovely as the Affordable Care Act. There is still the question of the co-pay. The time to see the doctor. The limits of plans and networks and previous health histories.
Self care is not something that has a limit. It is not bounded. It is built. It is based in love and it can help to save us from ourselves.
We are all small. We are none of us insignificant.
Drink water.
Eat fresh food when you can.
Love.
Be loved.
Let us build something new out of the rubble of what divides us.
Except for the part where some people got born, and they (well, one of them specifically) are amazing and loved and loving, of course.
Because mostly this is a shit month. Lots of people die. Lots of them. Some of the violently at the hands of the police. I don't know of any police that are held accountable for killing people. Neither does most anyone else. In some places, lots of people have come together to protest this. To protest systematic racism and utterly inequitable education, housing and economic opportunities. To protest the casual and constant racist rhetoric that accompanies the inequality. And now they are targets. Targets of micro and macro aggression. Targets of police, of twitter trolls, of violent racists whose words could very well mask no intent, but whose intent is as much to silence as it is to destroy.
People are suffering, and it is hard work. The reminders to do self-care, to do community-wide self-care are real and they are correct. Find a place to be, a place where you can be at rest for a little while and be there. Drink water. Eat. Sleep. Cry. Hug. Laugh. Watch a movie or a TV show. Play. Draw. Sing. Drink water. Take your meds.
And love.
This year, more than any before, I feel the strain of my appendectomy. Time to cry has been needed. Time to remember what it was to be in a hospital bed surrounded by people I never expected to be there. Time to consider how tremendous it is to be loved.
Self care as health insurance would have saved my body from the damage of the burst appendix. Self care as believing that my friends loved me and would care for me would have gotten me to the hospital sooner. Once I was released from the hospital self care as love challenged me to build a life founded on being as lovable as I was loved. Now self care is silence. Sometimes it is tearful awareness. It is patience. It is an absence of guilt. It is reading groups and making mistakes and riding my bike and appreciating that I live in a world where unaccompanied women of all kinds move about as if in no fear of attack. It is recognizing the racism in my privilege. It is taking deep breaths and learning to stop apologizing and start believing. It is choosing my pop culture.
There are no steps necessary between recognizing that I deserved better medical care and recognizing that everyone deserves better medical care. Except the part about understanding that medical care is not something that you earn, it is something to which you have the right. Only we live in a world where good health is a zero sum game, and only those who are worthy can achieve it, even after something as lovely as the Affordable Care Act. There is still the question of the co-pay. The time to see the doctor. The limits of plans and networks and previous health histories.
Self care is not something that has a limit. It is not bounded. It is built. It is based in love and it can help to save us from ourselves.
We are all small. We are none of us insignificant.
Drink water.
Eat fresh food when you can.
Love.
Be loved.
Let us build something new out of the rubble of what divides us.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Things that can Die in a Fire
This is a list. A list of things that can Die in a Fire.
It is not comprehensive. It may not even be explanatory.
Chivalry. Chivalry can die in a fire with its counterpart Street Harassment.
White ladies who use the word 'nice' to mean White and 'dangerous' to mean Black.
People touching other people's hair without their consent, perhaps without their knowledge. For real. Just that just needs to DIE IN A FIRE.
It is #BlackLivesMatter for a reason. Figure that reason out and just shut the fuck up with your AllLives and WhiteLives garbage.
"But it's my First Amendment Right." Fuck off. No, it isn't.
Bossy. Sassy. Note: these are 2 words that we thought maybe could just be put to bed so that we can all forget about how ill used they are now, but no, no. They must also die in a fire.
Meninism. Like. What. Even. Is. The. Thing. Here.
If you don't like to pay full price, don't throw the Amazon threat at the service person. Just throw your money at the giant cancerous blood-sucking void that is that online monstrosity, own it and shut up with your indignation. The schools you want to parent your children and the librarians you don't want to pay and the roads you want to be eternally in good repair lose money every time you value convenience over cost. You vote with your dollars. It is not the fault of the service person. It is your fault.
Anybody else have a thing they'd like to add?
Shoddy and harmful medical care. Believe me when I tell you a thing. This is not television and you are not mother-crapping House.
"Political correctness!" Look. Your words need to show respect. That is all. You not using racial epithets isn't a mark of weakness or collusion, it's how you show respect for another human being. Not telling jokes that glorify acts of violence and diminish the power of consent does not make you less funny. It makes you better at not being a lazy fucker who relies on infantile responses to gratify. You make it easier to dismiss you by speaking dismissively of others.
Suggesting that social media is somehow meaningless or ephemeral or fake ... How? How do you even not see the depth of communication that is possible across every geographic boundary that Mercator could have imagined? How do you pretend that violence in the ether is someone less? How do you willfully misinterpret the power of the Internet and its various forms of interpersonal interaction as empty and frivolous? Where is it not made plain that the connections forged on social media are what make the world less likely to stay shitty? Or is it just convenient to dismiss what's keeping social justice warriors in touch with each other and on the lookout for fuckups by you because otherwise you might have to change. Grow up. You will fight change. You always have.
It is not comprehensive. It may not even be explanatory.
Chivalry. Chivalry can die in a fire with its counterpart Street Harassment.
White ladies who use the word 'nice' to mean White and 'dangerous' to mean Black.
People touching other people's hair without their consent, perhaps without their knowledge. For real. Just that just needs to DIE IN A FIRE.
It is #BlackLivesMatter for a reason. Figure that reason out and just shut the fuck up with your AllLives and WhiteLives garbage.
"But it's my First Amendment Right." Fuck off. No, it isn't.
Bossy. Sassy. Note: these are 2 words that we thought maybe could just be put to bed so that we can all forget about how ill used they are now, but no, no. They must also die in a fire.
Meninism. Like. What. Even. Is. The. Thing. Here.
If you don't like to pay full price, don't throw the Amazon threat at the service person. Just throw your money at the giant cancerous blood-sucking void that is that online monstrosity, own it and shut up with your indignation. The schools you want to parent your children and the librarians you don't want to pay and the roads you want to be eternally in good repair lose money every time you value convenience over cost. You vote with your dollars. It is not the fault of the service person. It is your fault.
Anybody else have a thing they'd like to add?
Shoddy and harmful medical care. Believe me when I tell you a thing. This is not television and you are not mother-crapping House.
"Political correctness!" Look. Your words need to show respect. That is all. You not using racial epithets isn't a mark of weakness or collusion, it's how you show respect for another human being. Not telling jokes that glorify acts of violence and diminish the power of consent does not make you less funny. It makes you better at not being a lazy fucker who relies on infantile responses to gratify. You make it easier to dismiss you by speaking dismissively of others.
Suggesting that social media is somehow meaningless or ephemeral or fake ... How? How do you even not see the depth of communication that is possible across every geographic boundary that Mercator could have imagined? How do you pretend that violence in the ether is someone less? How do you willfully misinterpret the power of the Internet and its various forms of interpersonal interaction as empty and frivolous? Where is it not made plain that the connections forged on social media are what make the world less likely to stay shitty? Or is it just convenient to dismiss what's keeping social justice warriors in touch with each other and on the lookout for fuckups by you because otherwise you might have to change. Grow up. You will fight change. You always have.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Conversation in long form
Okay. I may have been drinking a little bit and watching Sense8 with a good best friend. Which means words. So. Many. Words.
If you haven't seen Sense8 and don't really want to, there is likely nothing here that is problematic. If you haven't seen Sense8 and would like to, then you may want to wait until you've seen 2 or 3 episodes before reading this. It's not about spoilers, it's about structure.
We take a long time to watch movies. The remote sits on the coffee table and whenever there is a need, the pause button gets pushed and we talk, we listen because what was said was relevant and thick with possibility. Because these are the people hanging out around our coffee tables.
Our conversations, like our relationships, are built on moments that add up over a very long time. We learn, discover and grow together. We share this context over time, sometimes over miles, definitely over space in shapes we could never otherwise imagine. We mourn the loss of love for beloved public figures and movies. We struggle. We demand, especially in the last year, more from ourselves and in consequence we celebrate the more we get from each other.
Doing better.
It takes corporations a very long time to get a fucking clue. Netflix's development department seems to be getting it better than others.
Series television shows, with no commercial breaks, released as entire seasons all at once, are in many ways a hearkening back to ways of storytelling that don't give a shit about commerce and stock prices. Humans have always been confusing to corporations; we are individual and we learn. The consequences of social constructs designed to inhibit our learning and cultural controls manufactured to limit our individuality are made, they are not inherent.
Of late, there is no room for this bullshit in my entertainment choices. I am not shy about my unending love for Magic Mike XXL, a thoroughly fluffy movie that triggers nothing and leaves me breathless and telling stories about what the guys are up to now and how the next film could go. The whole movie happens as a kind of delighted riff on what it is to live well after throwing off the weight of the patriarchy, unafraid of work, unafraid of fucking up, unafraid of cleaning up the messes you make on your own.
It is a movie for grown women. Because being fully alive and aware and not at all freaked out at the possibility of real is some grown woman shit.
Sense8 is a show for grown people. It is utterly unique in my experience of television, although not in my experience of storytelling.
When I say that this show is for grown people, I am not joking. It is less flippant than anything I've seen about humans and their lives and their experiences. Every bit of spectacle serves the narrative. And there is no shortage of spectacle.
Amazing Roommate did some researching while we recovered from the first episode and found that the Wachowskis are gamers. I am not. There is someone in my life who is. She tells me stories. She tells me the stories of the video games that she plays. I have hours of memories set to the soundtrack of her storytelling. That one piece of information clicked and suddenly a show that was bonkers and compelling became a kind of worm hole scented with paper dust and lemon.
Eight people in eight different places communicating without being in each other's immediate presence; their lives under threat from some acknowledged but unknown enemy; skill sets that are partly predefined and partly redefined by the experience of connection; a leveling up of understanding. This is an incredible beginning for any story.
Happily, it also has sense of compassion, humor and something that I hadn't expected at all. Nothing in this show glorifies the patriarchy. Nothing allows people to control other people without cost. It is an investment to be into this show - not of money outside of the subscription - an investment of emotion that is never given the satisfaction of being corrupted. I feel TV love for every one of the sensates at the end of the season. All of them. Equally, though differently as they are all completely different people. Grown people who have to live in a world imperfectly suited to them.
Complications ensue. I cannot pretend to know if this show is perfect. I think that there are more things to think about and dig through and refer to, etc.
At least, I certainly hope so. I got a lot of friends, and we really like to talk about things.
If you haven't seen Sense8 and don't really want to, there is likely nothing here that is problematic. If you haven't seen Sense8 and would like to, then you may want to wait until you've seen 2 or 3 episodes before reading this. It's not about spoilers, it's about structure.
 |
| Miguel Angel Silvestre's twitter |
Our conversations, like our relationships, are built on moments that add up over a very long time. We learn, discover and grow together. We share this context over time, sometimes over miles, definitely over space in shapes we could never otherwise imagine. We mourn the loss of love for beloved public figures and movies. We struggle. We demand, especially in the last year, more from ourselves and in consequence we celebrate the more we get from each other.
Doing better.
It takes corporations a very long time to get a fucking clue. Netflix's development department seems to be getting it better than others.
Series television shows, with no commercial breaks, released as entire seasons all at once, are in many ways a hearkening back to ways of storytelling that don't give a shit about commerce and stock prices. Humans have always been confusing to corporations; we are individual and we learn. The consequences of social constructs designed to inhibit our learning and cultural controls manufactured to limit our individuality are made, they are not inherent.
Of late, there is no room for this bullshit in my entertainment choices. I am not shy about my unending love for Magic Mike XXL, a thoroughly fluffy movie that triggers nothing and leaves me breathless and telling stories about what the guys are up to now and how the next film could go. The whole movie happens as a kind of delighted riff on what it is to live well after throwing off the weight of the patriarchy, unafraid of work, unafraid of fucking up, unafraid of cleaning up the messes you make on your own.
It is a movie for grown women. Because being fully alive and aware and not at all freaked out at the possibility of real is some grown woman shit.
 |
| from Creative Loafing |
When I say that this show is for grown people, I am not joking. It is less flippant than anything I've seen about humans and their lives and their experiences. Every bit of spectacle serves the narrative. And there is no shortage of spectacle.
Amazing Roommate did some researching while we recovered from the first episode and found that the Wachowskis are gamers. I am not. There is someone in my life who is. She tells me stories. She tells me the stories of the video games that she plays. I have hours of memories set to the soundtrack of her storytelling. That one piece of information clicked and suddenly a show that was bonkers and compelling became a kind of worm hole scented with paper dust and lemon.
Eight people in eight different places communicating without being in each other's immediate presence; their lives under threat from some acknowledged but unknown enemy; skill sets that are partly predefined and partly redefined by the experience of connection; a leveling up of understanding. This is an incredible beginning for any story.
Happily, it also has sense of compassion, humor and something that I hadn't expected at all. Nothing in this show glorifies the patriarchy. Nothing allows people to control other people without cost. It is an investment to be into this show - not of money outside of the subscription - an investment of emotion that is never given the satisfaction of being corrupted. I feel TV love for every one of the sensates at the end of the season. All of them. Equally, though differently as they are all completely different people. Grown people who have to live in a world imperfectly suited to them.
Complications ensue. I cannot pretend to know if this show is perfect. I think that there are more things to think about and dig through and refer to, etc.
At least, I certainly hope so. I got a lot of friends, and we really like to talk about things.
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