We do not believe in your god

You are not our elders

Many of your ‘morals’ are our ’sins’

But we believe in and support your freedom to believe what you believe and to live how you wish to live

All we ask in return is the same magnanimity, the same goodwill

Keep your noses out of our uteruses and homes

Out of our loved ones’ private lives and relationships

Keep your threats off of our president

We don’t want your ‘morals,’ we don’t want your lifestyle

We have come to our own ‘morals’ with careful analyses of lifetimes of evidence

We are happy with our ethical codes and happy to live in a country whose constitution guarantees us the right to follow them

We believe in individual freedom, not taking freedom away

We believe in love, not bigotry and hatred

We believe in peace, not war

We believe in unity, not division

And we believe that if you keep trying to foist your beliefs on the rest of us, you are a political campaign and not a church and therefore should be taxed, like the rest of us

May the Catholic Church, Focus on the Family, and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints stop their ideological tyranny

May these churches and organizations engage instead in the Christ-like behavior of helping those who are suffering, of providing community and resources for those in need

And may we all enjoy the freedoms guaranteed by our founding constitution and so bravely defended for generations

Sincerely,

The Liberated

Everywhere, USA

Tonight I attended a panel discussion in which I could not get the space to phrase some simple questions. This is not to say that I feel the space was not allowed me, nor anyone else, but that there were, at all the wrong moments (for my little question(s)), many other people wishing to share commentary. And so it was that I was not able to ask my questions of the esteemed panel comprised of Phyllis Jackson, Judith Halberstam, Yong Soon Min, Amelia Jones, and Jennifer Doyle. While my questions remain, I now have- at least- the ability to better articulate the ruminatory peregrinations that my mind made during the volleyed commentary between panelists and audience members alike.

My primary question is: How can we (who label ourselves feminists, or more particularly, radical feminists) show everyone else that feminism is The Answer? I know, I know: the last two words of that last sentence will turn off many critical, educated postmodern theorists simply by implying a unified anything. I posit that we can sidestep that problem by allowing the radical, liberatory definition of feminism that I have learned from studying bell hooks which is, simply, that feminism is for Everybody (for the whole, unified entirety of humanity- Everybody!!) The definition of feminism in this case implies that it is a universal solution to a universal problem: oppression (which we may also call patriarchy). Liberation from oppression: feminism crumbling the walls of patriarchy. How do we show all of society that the feminist rejection of hierarchy and oppression, whether it be on the basis of race, sex, class, nationality, sexuality, physical ability, etc., is to everyone’s benefit? How do we show that even those amongst us who appear the most privileged have the benefit of a healthier society and a greater ability to express their true selves in a feminist context?

Professor Doyle referred to writing by Audre Lorde in which she exhorts those that are meeting, perhaps policy-making, to look around at each other and note who is missing. In any organization, who is missing that will clearly not be representing themselves? Who must we represent in our conversations? Professor Jackson made a great point: younger feminists were missing from the panel. I would add that older feminists (older than 60) were also missing from the panel. The question I really wanted to raise was . . . where were the men? This is, of course, tied to my conclusion that (obviously) mainstream society is not aware that feminism is for everybody, but more importantly: why didn’t anyone bring up the lack of 1) male-created feminist art in the WACK! exhibit and 2) the possible damage that may be done to feminism when it is represented in such a public way as simplistically “for, by, and about women” and 3) the panel’s lack of male members.

This concerns me because I work with young people, aged 12-18 years old. I teach them in the classroom, but I also work with them in an activist context, as the faculty advisor to the campus gay-straight alliance. Our GSA has explored the liberatory benefits to all people when we educate the campus on Transgender Day of Remembrance, National Coming Out Day, etc. The GSA members know that anti-racist work is directly tied to anti-homophobic work and anti-sexist work. We’re still working on class issues, but they are seeing the connections. I have used the word feminism once with the GSA students. When I did, the hint of snickers and sideways glances from some of the students indicated to me that for these children, feminism is the real “f” word. Feminism, to them, conjures what the anti-feminist backlash has intended for it to conjure: angry, white, queer women yelling about outdated concerns. I’m quite sure that this is as far as the young people who have not been radicalized into really learning about feminism go. They have not learned that feminism is an academic lens that deconstructs oppression of all sorts. They have not learned that, in the process of making women and men equal, all sexes benefit and that this equality-producing-universal-benefit is true in terms of all other (apparent) binaries (race, class, etc.) With my young students, I avoid using the word “feminism” just as I avoid using the word “anarchism.” The media messages regarding these terms are too strongly negative for me to approach them directly. Therefore, I have been challenged to articulate around the terms . . . which, in fact, is a very effective way to teach lasting knowledge.

These young people can make the intellectual leap from anti-homophobic work to anti-racist work. My impression is that they are not able to make the intellectual leap from feminism as the outdated and angry to feminism as the utterly relevant and inclusive. Professor Halberstam raised the question of the pieces in the exhibit that represent the female body in a selfless way- as object. She described them as disarming, as unexpectedly political. [I was not taking notes: this is me paraphrasing what she said (corrections welcome!)] She pointed out that these pieces used a patriarchal expectation of women as the medium for feminist expression. This was intriguing as Professor Halberstam described the pieces, but also intriguing to me because this is not how feminism is represented in mainstream media, which is where my students have learned anything they may know about feminism. What my students have learned is the image of reactionary feminism. Feminism that has had ENOUGH! of patriarchal, sexist bullshit and is ready to say something about it. What Professor Halberstam described were pieces that could be described as a kind of evocative feminism . . . by hooking a crochet needle (if you will) through one part sympathy and one part fury and one part identification and one part sadness, a feminist might be made. This is not the feminism we see in mainstream media.

In fact, this is not the kind of activism we ever see in the media, because it’s not the form that activism most often takes. For every anti-war or anti-Bush demonstration I go to, I have the choice of myriad contingents to join. All but one of them intend to hold many signs and to be vocal. The one group that I have never (yet) chosen to join is the Buddhist Peace Fellowship. While I am affiliated with the group, I have not walked with the group in silence at a large demonstration nor sat in quiet meditation off to one side. When making this decision, the question I always ask myself is: how long can I be angry? Is this the time to reject reaction and to NOT just do something, but to sit there? Until now, I’ve decided that my daily life is the peaceful activism of intentional community and cultivated compassion and that the demonstrations are the time to speak up and protest loudly against the white supremacist capitalist [imperialist] patriarchy that is literally in the way of every beautiful possibility on the planet. To be sure, there are ways to subvert that power structure (what I do when I find a place of compassion inside myself or when my community consenses on a decision after much discussion.) However, these subversions are lost in the onslaught of media images of gyrating hipsters listening to their iPods in a false reality of materialistic bliss. What I am protesting is that denial of a voice for our subversive collectives in an age when product consumption is identity and representation is reserved for the highest bidder. At the same time, I am living one alternative and sometimes documenting such.

This may be where the schizophrenic requirement to be at the center and also in the margins, as a few people mentioned during the panel / audience discussion, arises: a movement requires visibility and representation, but is at the same time so much more than what most people will ever see and could ever try to represent. Perhaps this is where our imperative, those who would call ourselves feminists, arises. We must represent ourselves. I consider myself a radical feminist, and my questions may serve to represent not only me, but perhaps other radical feminists: Where were the men tonight on the panel, and how can we get a widespread embrace of feminism as a present solution rather than as a historic event?

san francisco.

fabulous in so many ways. frolick into muni station, stop and realize that exact change is needed. dollar fifty. seek out change machine, change the twenty into fives and the five into dollar coins. lucky for us, we already got the quarters.

head for the turnstile, sign reads “PASS ONLY.” hmm . . . maybe i’ll just try to put my coins in the coin slot . . . but it’s blocked by a piece of metal.

man bypasses turnstile and opens the wheelchair door to go downstairs and catch the train. we follow, and, at the door, see that there are two muni officers downstairs. we can ask them how we’re supposed to pay. as we’re coming down the stairs, coins in hand, one officer yells up to us,

“do you have your tickets?”

“actually, we were just coming down here to ask you how to pay, because the turnstiles weren’t accepting money.”

“oh- you came down here to ask us?”

“yes.”

“and how did you know that we were down here?”

“we could see you from up there. the guy before us came through the handicapped door, and when i walked over there, i saw that you were down here.”

“how long have you lived in san francisco?”

“we don’t. we’re visiting from LA.”

“can i see your ID cards?”

“okay.”

“are you in the process of moving here?”

“no- we’re here for the marathon.”

“did you look for an attendant when you couldn’t pay your fare?”

“yes- there wasn’t one.”

“oh? and how did you know that there wasn’t one?”

“there was no one in the kiosk.”

“so you looked in the kiosk?”

“yes.”

“and you didn’t see the sign?”

“what sign? there were many signs. we were looking for a person to ask how to pay our fare.”

leading us upstairs,

“well, you’ve entered a ticket-only zone. it’s up to $500 dollar fine for entering this zone without a ticket.”

pointing to rather large, but otherwise surrounded my many other visual distractions, sign,

“if you had looked in the kiosk for an attendant, you would have seen this sign.”

the sign reads, “NO ATTENDANT pay fare at other end of station.”

silence.

“so i’m going to have to give you a citation. hello, supervisor.” as another person in uniform walks by.

anger seething out of my pores, disempowermentoverwhelmingadrenalinerushingfistclenchingicouldtearyour fuckingheadoff,youslimyexcuseforahumanbeingusingmeasawaytomakeyourself feellikeyouhavesomekindofpower,whenallitisisapowertripbyabutchdykewoman inaworldthatcan’tacceptyousoyou’regoingtofuckthewomanyoucouldneverlayin whateverwayyoucanandoh, you’regoingtohaveyourwaytoday,aren’tyou? becauseyou’vegottheuniformthatididn’tgiveyou. someonetoldyouyouhadsomeauthorityandnowyou’reusingitlikethegoodcopyouare. whensomeonecomestoyouforhelp,yougive’emanicestrongfuckintheassbecause

youisacopandiisnothingand

i’d

better

learn

to

take

it.

right?becausethere’snothingelsetodointhisunderground,tiledhell.

“is this your address?”

“no. it’s my parents’ address.”

“do you want to give me your address?”

“i don’t have an address.”

“i need an address where you can be reached.”

“do you want my work address, ma’am?”

“sure. whatever address.”

people start walking up to the turnstiles. some have passes, know what they’re doing. others, like us, look perplexed.

“look out! this is a trap!”

second officer shushes me. i continue.

“if you have coins, you’ll have to go to the other end of the station, like this not very obvious sign says,” pointing to the sign.

people walk in the right direction, thanking me. back to the officer, i slowly state my work address, measured enunciation that you could slit a throat with.

“okay, i’ll need you to sign here.”

“i’m not signing that. why would i sign that?”

“if you don’t sign it, you’ll be arrested. this is a nontraffic violation. it won’t appear on your driving record. the top part shows your information, the bottom part describes the violation, this is my name and star number,”

i take the pen, write my initials across the entire bottom half of the sheet,

“i’m really impressed with how well you filled out the sheet.”

as she tears the sheet off her pad, handing it to me,

“when i go in to the station tonight, i’m going to make note of your poor attitude,”

“and i’ll make a note of yours.”

“your three options are to not appear in court or pay a fine, and a felony warrant for your arrest will be issued, or pay the fine,”

“do you still have my ID card?”

“yes,” finding it and handing it to me.

“or contest the charge.”

i’m already walking away. disgusted. fuming.

my friend A.B. finally walks over, after the officer refuses to tell her what our options are, as i clearly wasn’t listening.

we’re walking up the stairs out of the muni station, walking now that i’m too enraged to consider going and paying a fare after such treatment, enraged that my afternoon has been thoroughly ruined, and i scream

likeafuckingbansheealltheragepoursoutofmylungsechosinstairwellscaresoffother passengersfromtrainundergroundtobusaboveground,myfuriousvoicegrowls atthismonsterthathoversoverme.

second citation in two months. the police state is out of control. just when i think i couldn’t be any more radical, a situation comes along and i think, “well- i’ll be damned. we’re more fucked than i had imagined!”

by the time we’ve walked halfway to friend M.G.’s house, my body feels limp. a simple jaunt to the waterfront and back turned into an exhausting lesson to never: NEVER trust cops. avoid them at all costs.

how does one exist in the city and avoid the cops?

the lyrics from “cop killa” come into my head because i just heard them two weeks ago when i saw “beyond beats and rhymes: a hip-hop head weighs in on manhood in hip-hop culture,” which was well-done and thought-provoking. and, as usual, i realized that it’s all connected. the power-trip grasping after manhood of the cops that have given me citations is in response to their own sense of inadequacy (because, really, why else do people become cops?) this posturing and claiming of power make those that are oppressed- me, lately, and african-american youth, usually- hold onto OUR “manhood” all the more tightly.

it’s a vicious cycle and, like war, there will be no “winner.”

just losers, all around.

that’s what a fascist police-state (few will deny it, at this point) makes us all.

i’m reminded now of the tactical ice-cream unit, straight outta SF. yes. i think that is all i have to say about that. even in these times that try my soul, i can still count on signs of irreverant disregard for authority to warm the cockles of my heart.

Last night I joined up with the central LA critical mass ride. There were about 60 of us, including the always-fabulous sound system that turns our rolling conversation into a rolling saddle-dance party. After some tug-of-war at the front of the ride, we veered towards South Central, to visit the South Central Farm [or] and show support for the struggle happening there. [In (very) short, the Farm is the largest contiguous urban farm in the entire country. It has been producing for 13 years, and it supports 350 families of very low income, mostly recent immigrants. It is an irreplaceable resource for the 350 families, South Central, the city of Los Angeles . . . for the planet.]

For the last 3 years, the families and organizers have been applying themselves full-time to staving off eviction by the city after the city decided to sell the land out from under the farmers. Myriad paths have been traveled in an attempt to save the farm. As of a few days ago, what appeared to be the final path had ended up short and now the farmers are awaiting, in a hypervigilant state, the sirens of the police as they arrive to forcefully remove the farmers and allow the bulldozers onto the land to tear up their livelihoods/community/culture and replace it all with a large concrete warehouse.

Our ride through South Central residential streets was met with confusion, mostly, but also the cheering and clapping and reciprocated “peace” signs that we get from pedestrians and some motorists when we go the usual north or west direction from our starting point. In reality, the “confusion” I just ascribed to most who witnessed our passing last night was something more than that. Most people don’t know what critical mass is, so there is some confusion for people who see a very motley group of people NOT in racing clothes (for the most part), on bicycles and trailing a large sound system. We aren’t carrying signs or passing out xerocracy, lately, so there’s really no indication what we are riding for. In fact, that is our most commonly received question: “What are you all riding for??” My usual response: “Fun!”

While everyone has some confusion about us, the majority of folks we saw last night in South Central met us with suspicion. Like the farmers, the whole of the low-income people of color in this city (this nation) have reason to be suspect of unusual people entering their community. In short, their own hypervigilance begs, “are these people here to exploit us?” So the joy of sharing a different vision of a Friday night with the children who were running on the sidewalk, cheering at us, was sharply counterweighed by the squinted eyes and crossed arms of the weathered men in front of their humble homes and the momentary stress our large group with no obvious purpose caused them.

And so our mass birthed out of 41^st street heading east, crossed the blue line tracks and took a sharp turn north on Long Beach Ave., past the main entrance to the farm as a whole line of activists were walking around the perimeter of the farm, holding candles and cheering at the vision of us flooding into the street and past them. We did a loop around the entire farm in the opposite direction of the marchers, and on the far side of the farm the people on watch with walkie-talkies took notice and quickly picked up their radios to report / get feedback on what all the people on bikes with a sound system was about. Hypervigilance.

As we rounded the bend back towards the main entrance, our cacophonous and blinking mass of cyborgs was in distinct juxtaposition to the tranquility of the quiet vegetables and the palpitating candlelight at the farm. Then, out of our group, came a loud “beeeoooooop!” police-car-imitating yelp originally meant to get the attention of motorists who might otherwise crush us, as cyclists, if they weren’t forced into attentiveness by the threat of a cop car in the vicinity. Most people have no idea about this sound, so any non-cyclist who witnesses it has nothing to conclude except that there is a cop car behind the mass of cyclists . . . or, in the case of THIS situation, if someone saw that it was, in fact, a cyclist’s mouth that made the sound, that the farmers’ hypervigilant state was being mocked. It’s like entering a sweatshop in downtown LA and yelling “La migra!” Insensitive, idiotic, or both. As the cop car imitation is now a greeting in the cycling community, another cyclist shot a loud “beeeeeooooooooop!!” back. I did what I could to quickly shut those people up, and I think no hard feelings were experienced by the farmers guarding the front gate, as they allowed us in. We all stayed for some amount of time, hearing the speakers, eating some food, touring the farm, enjoying the music, checking to see how Julia Butterfly Hill, up in the oldest tree at the farm and on her 11^th day of a hunger strike, was doing.

The night was not ruined, but the issue arose: as a subculture in this city, we have a responsibility to be sensitive to other subcultures. We, of all people, should be able to identify with the vulnerability and concomitant hypervigilance that being in a subculture can cause. While a large group of our cyborg beings of flesh and bicycle steel might be considered threatening in some places, we’re usually roaming the city by ourselves, and, as such, we are vulnerable to the much larger and sometimes much faster-moving cyborgs known as people in cars. Whether we dwell on it or not, we are aware of our vulnerability. If someone behind us honks, we jump because we are in, even if we don’t know it, a hypervigilant state. If we hear a skidding car somewhere behind us, we think “oh SHIT . . .” because the car could be heading straight for us. It is ironic and appropriate that from this vulnerability was spawned the cop-car-imitation as a weapon against those that could harm us.

We are imitating a (multi-leveled) oppressor in order to manipulate another oppressor. And so our weapon was inadvertently turned last night, for a moment, against a sister subculture in this city: some recent immigrants of low income that are finding sustainable, culturally appropriate ways to exist.

It’s easy to be caught up in one’s own experience, regardless of who you are. This is a call to each of us, as members of some cultures and some subcultures and as over-privileged in some regards and under-privileged in others, to THINK . . . about those around us and their positionality and to be sensitive to such, particularly when they are inhabiting a more oppressed subculture than we can claim.

[This post cross-posted with Biciblog and published on CICLE.]