The Killing Fields (Rosanne Cash)

A bit of justice, finally... 💙

From today's NYT newsletter:

"The murder conviction of a police officer is an exceedingly rare event.

There have been only seven murder convictions of officers for fatal police shootings since 2005, according to Philip Stinson of Bowling Green State University. That suggests the chances of a killing by the police leading to a murder conviction are about one in 2,000.

Yet a jury in Minneapolis yesterday convicted Derek Chauvin of second-degree murder (as well as two other charges) for killing George Floyd last May. A typical sentence for that felony in Minneapolis is 12½ years in prison, although prosecutors have asked for more and the maximum is 40 years. A judge will sentence Chauvin in about eight weeks."

NR:  Priestdaddy:  A Memoir by Patricia Lockwood

SONG:  The Killing Fields by Rosanne Cash

BOOK:  Chokehold: Policing Black Men by Paul Butler

POEM:  Ode to the Cameraman by Alora Young

This is an ode to the cameraman

for the poet

and the pastor

and the speeches that redefine legacies.

It’s the lens that takes history and makes it art,

the art that makes wrong into revolution.

The gun the knee

we can never unsee       the bodies

of George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery.

—To Emmett Till

to all the faces painted on every memory.

We were wrong.

This revolution is live in living color.

We are dying in HD.

I had a dream that our lives went viral

and that Twitter somehow set us free.

The last four years

have been etched into the flesh of progress

like

a

B u r n i n g

cross.

I can’t help but reminisce

about all the moments that Martin lost—

you see martyrs,

those who die for a cause,

we don’t often think about their families.

His legacy is infinite,

but I’m sure Bernice must just miss her daddy.

Every black man who dies in the street

lies on top of the last

four hundred years of combat.

Call me a hysteric

or a heretic,

but all I know is I want my God back. My God.

Not the one who stands

hand and hand with MAGA malice,

who they say wants us to stop counting ballots

to keep this new age toupeed Nero in an all white palace.

The only way out of the belly of this beast

Is       Through.

We keep marching towards a freedom, but freedom’s a concept

… I don’t get where we’re marching to.

This is an ode to the men who know how to win a war,

to the men who take martyrs and make movements human—

it’s funny how 2020 looks just like 1965.

I wonder what wisdom Martin would give me if he were still alive,

if peace is still the best option,

if we are headed towards his vision,

… are we going fast enough to stop them?

This war is televised.

These cameras have put the truth before our nation’s eyes.

My father taught me that God lies in the darkness as well.

The plans of a holy man are often impossible for even him to find.

We can never know the future God has woven

inside of Martin’s mind,

but as we wander blind

toward tomorrow

know that there is more in heaven than the roadmap.

This is not a poem, it’s a playbook.

It’s laid out in 24 frames—look:

the same stage has made the difference on every battlefield,

because the camera I swear is the weapon victors wield.

These men have made God a tool of their war—

I ask you to tell me was he not used as such before?

It’s more than shooting or violence—

progress moves in a silence—

that makes it so we can’t shake the feeling that change is made to come.

In this non-poem lies the markers on our map to freedom,

because I’ve shown you where we’ve come from.

Martin made change not because he was made changed,

but because the same stage holds the ghost

of all its past plays,

seeing the future is much the same as seeing the past,

because

my God

has made the answers,

long before we’ve asked.

The camera is the difference between

Armies of Radicals and Protests Sabbaticals

Whether X’s are Kisses

^ or Graves

Whether we were kings

^or slaves

Martin’s method of protest

made true progress because the script was just too hard to flip.

In God, he found the processes he made sure that we didn’t slip.

Peaceful seats at counter sides

do no wrong in cameras’ eyes

that’s why he changed so many minds:

he changed a narrative.

The first mission of Trump’s modern fascism

is to lose the “fake news”

he likes multi-takes with camera crews

making merch for propaganda crews

so the people will abandon who

actually has their best interest at heart.

I dare to say a narrative is what split this country apart.

When you want to change the world,

first, change a child’s mind.

Martin preached a life in words that had a joy like children find.

When you start on this next battle call a cameraman

because war is in

the people’s minds.

Kingdoms rise and fall, but the camera sees it all.

Memories live past the trials that decide the truth of abuses,

and the phantoms that live in the call.

The first time you see change

I promise

is never the beginning.

Because for eras before the prophets of yore

had minds that had long been spinning.

God gifts the words for the battle-winning narrative.

Prophets just sing along.

That’s why in the streets people scream

I have a dream

that’s Gods music—

we’re just singing along.

We have our actors and our cameramen,

we have God’s script and our stage

turn

on the lights

send the artists and wrights

and hope our revolution makes

the Front Page.

[Alora Young, 1/26/21: “With the combination of the Martin Luther King holiday and the inauguration, last week has been monumental for our country. We have survived a year of division, we have survived a year of revolution, and when I saw the photographs in this NPR article, I realized something. We aren’t fighting a war with fist anymore. We are fighting a war with cameras. We are fighting a war with art. And I feel that now we understand this we can win the struggle for a kinder world.”]

QUOTE:  “True justice requires that we come to terms with the fact that Black Americans are treated differently, every day...  And it requires us to do the sometimes thankless, often difficult, but always necessary work of making the America we know more like the America we believe in.” ~ Barack Obama

I Can't Breathe (H.E.R.)

The jurors have begun deliberating in the George Floyd trial.  In closing statements, the prosecution urged jurors: “Believe your eyes. What you saw, you saw.”

From today's NYT newsletter:

"Since George Floyd’s death last May, dozens of states and local governments have changed their laws about police behavior. And yet police officers continue to kill about three Americans each day on average, nearly identical to the rate of police killings for as long as statistics exist.

Which raises the question: Are the latest efforts to change policing — to make it less violent, especially for Black and Latino Americans — destined to fail?

Not necessarily, many experts say. They believe the recent changes are meaningful. They will probably fall well short of solving the country’s problem with needlessly violent police behavior. But the changes still appear to be substantial, even if they will take some time to have a noticeable effect.

“You actually can get a lot of common ground between police critics and police themselves,” Rosa Brooks, a Georgetown University law professor and former reserve police officer in Washington, told us. “There are plenty of places where those conversations seem to be occurring in a preliminary way.”

That common ground extends to public opinion. Most Americans disagree with sweeping criticisms of the police, like the calls to abolish police departments. (Rashida Tlaib, a Democratic congresswoman from Michigan, wrote last week on Twitter: “No more policing, incarceration, and militarization. It can’t be reformed.”) Recent polls show that most Americans say they generally trust the police, and few if any mayors, governors, congressional leaders or top members of the Biden administration share Tlaib’s view.

But many politicians and most voters do favor changes to policing, like banning chokeholds and racial profiling or mandating police body cameras. “Americans — both Democrats and Republicans — want some sort of reform,” Alex Samuels of FiveThirtyEight wrote.

The recent policy changes fit into two main categories. The first is a set of limits on the use of force. Sixteen states have restricted the use of so-called neck restraints, like Derek Chauvin’s use of his knee on Floyd’s neck. And 21 additional cities now require officers to intervene when they think another officer is using excessive force.

The changes have mostly been in Democratic-leaning states, but not entirely: Kentucky has limited no-knock warrants, which played a role in Breonna Taylor’s death, while Indiana, Iowa and Utah have restricted neck restraints. (Republican legislators in some states are pushing bills that go in the other direction, by strengthening penalties for people who injure officers, for instance, or by preventing cities from cutting police budgets.)

The second category involves police accountability. Several states have mandated the use of body cameras. Colorado, New Mexico, Massachusetts and Connecticut have made it easier for citizens to sue police officers, as has New York City.

In Maryland, David Moon, a state legislator, said that the recent changes were “just light-years beyond” those enacted after Freddie Gray died in the custody of Baltimore police six years ago. The new laws “basically blew up the old system and tried to create a new structure for discipline,” Moon told The Washington Post.

One significant part of the policy changes: States are enacting them, forcing local police departments to abide by them. “States had given great leeway to local jurisdictions to decide how to police themselves,” The Times’s Michael Keller told us. “Now, states are starting to take more control.”

It’s too early to know whether all of the attention on policing after Floyd’s death will amount to widespread changes. “Police organizations have an amazing ability to resist change when there’s no real buy-in from the rank and file,” Brooks said. But there does seem to be a greater recognition of what policing has in common with virtually every other human endeavor: It works better when it includes clear standards and outside accountability.

“What we’ve seen since George Floyd’s death — and really since the death of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Mo., in 2014 — is a widespread acknowledgment that law enforcement needs new rules and policies,” my colleague John Eligon, who has covered policing extensively, said. “But there is still a great frustration among many activists and community members I talk to who say that the changes do not go nearly far enough.”

He added: “They see tinkering around the edges that does not really change the culture of police departments or solve the big problem: that police in America are still killing people every day.”

SONG:  I Can't Breathe by H.E.R.

BOOK:  'I Can't Breathe' The Cities Cry Echoing George Floyd's Final Words by Kadesha Henry

POEM(S):  Why I don’t write about George Floyd by Toi Derricotte

Because there is too much to say

Because I have nothing to say

Because I don’t know what to say

Because everything has been said

Because it hurts too much to say

What can I say what can I say

Something is stuck in my throat

Something is stuck like an apple

Something is stuck like a knife

Something is stuffed like a foot

Something is stuffed like a body

Poem with an Ear Pressed to the Ground by Kindra McDonald

That it would come down

to the science of breathing

how the lungs receive oxygen

how a pulse becomes stilled

that it would come down

to the compression of an airway

somewhere between the diameter

of a quarter and a dime

shallow breaths the equivalent

of surgical removal of the left lung

trying to breathe with fingers and knuckles

under the force of 90 pounds of pressure

like sipping air through a drinking straw

that it would come down to 12 peers

in chairs palpating their own throats

to feel the pulse beneath their probing

fingers, the tender skin indent

the metric beat of pumping blood

an ear pressed to the ground

prone and pleading

all of us needing the one

who we all came from

who held her breath

spent and waiting

for a newborn to cry

to breathe with life.

[Kindra McDonald: “So much of this last year has been about breath and breathing. The transmission of an unseen virus, the breath of contagion, the respirators and intubations of packed ICU patients, but amidst all of that a reel of “I can’t breathe.” Three words that have for too long been linked to violent restraint. As the Chauvin murder trail in the death of George Floyd plays out, I’ve been struck by the breath we all share. The image of the jurors feeling their necks for the airway that was obstructed has haunted me and this poem is that ghost.”]

QUOTE:  "We need to statutize what is permissible and what is not permissible. If a law enforcement agent uses a clearly unapproved technique like the knee that was on the neck of George Floyd for over eight minutes, no law enforcement agent thinks that that's right and that officer should be held accountable." ~ Cal Cunningham

Black & Blue (Danny Schmidt)

"If you are not outraged, you are not paying attention." (can't seem to find the original attribution.)


Pompano Beach Protests 'Keep This Energy Going':  More than a month since protests began following the death of George Floyd while a Minneapolis police officer kneeled on his neck, demonstrations continued all over South Florida.

Three Words. 70 Cases. The Tragic History of ‘I Can’t Breathe.’:  The deaths of Eric Garner in New York and George Floyd in Minnesota created national outrage over the use of deadly police restraints. There were many others you didn’t hear about.

Danny Schmidt does it again.  No surprise there... ❤

This time spent in quarantine has lent itself to recording and releasing songs in near realtime, as I'm writing them. I don't know if that has inspired me to write songs that are of a more timely and topical nature, or if these extraordinary times have inspired me to write about the here and now. But whichever, it is topical tunes that seem to be bubbling out. And I've got a new one for you entitled, Black & Blue.

It's a song that deals with the state of race in this country, the role of force in policing, and the spiritual cost of brutality. These issues have obviously been top of mind for a lot of us lately. The tensions underlying the relationship between law enforcement and the black community are deep and complex, and have a long dark history Unraveling ourselves from that history will take a long time. This song focuses on the will to do the work.

SONG:  Black & Blue by Danny Schmidt [from Danny:  Usually, when I make a lyric video, it's a bit of an after-thought. This time is different. I set the song to a backdrop of images from the protests and the public outcry, and I actually think the juxtaposition makes the experience of the song itself a stronger one. The photos themselves are so provocative and powerful, they actually made me quite emotional as I was cutting them together.]

BOOK:  We Can't Breathe: On Black Lives, White Lies, and the Art of Survival by Jabari Asim

POEM:  I Can’t Breathe by Pamela Sneed

I suppose I should place them under separate files
Both died from different circumstances kind of, one from HIV AIDS and possibly not having
taken his medicines
the other from COVID-19 coupled with
complications from an underlying HIV status
In each case their deaths may have been preventable if one had taken his meds and the
hospital thought to treat the other
instead of sending him home saying, He wasn’t sick enough
he died a few days later
They were both mountains of men
dark black beautiful gay men
both more than six feet tall fierce and way ahead of their time
One’s drag persona was Wonder Woman and the other started a black fashion magazine
He also liked poetry
They both knew each other from the same club scene we all grew up in
When I was working the door at a club one frequented
He would always say to me haven’t they figured out you’re a star yet
And years ago bartending with the other when I complained about certain people and
treatment he said sounds like it’s time for you to clean house
Both I know were proud of me the poet star stayed true to my roots
I guess what stands out to me is that they both were
gay black mountains of men
Cut down
Felled too early
And it makes me think the biggest and blackest are almost always more vulnerable
My white friend speculates why the doctors sent one home
If he had enough antibodies
Did they not know his HIV status
She approaches it rationally
removed from race as if there were any rationale for sending him home
Still she credits the doctors for thinking it through
But I speculate they saw a big black man before them
Maybe they couldn’t imagine him weak
Maybe because of his size color class they imagined him strong
said he’s okay
Which happened to me so many times
Once when I’d been hospitalized at the same time as a white girl
she had pig-tails
we had the same thing but I saw how tenderly they treated her
Or knowing so many times in the medical system I would never have been treated so terribly if I
had had a man with me
Or if I were white and entitled enough to sue
Both deaths could have been prevented both were almost first to fall in this season of death
But it reminds me of what I said after Eric Garner a large black man was strangled to death over
some cigarettes
Six cops took him down
His famous lines were I can’t breathe
so if we are always the threat
To whom or where do we turn for protection?

QUOTE:  "The horrific cases in Ferguson, in Staten Island with the death of Eric Garner, and all across the country serve as stark reminders that we must have a say in who polices us, and how that policing is done. We must, we must, let our voices be heard on Election Day." ~ Al Sharpton

Love Don't Need a Reason (Michael Callen)

I think it's interesting that the recent Black Lives Matter protests have led people to also explore the history of the LGBTQ movement, and to surprisingly discover that the latter was sparked by black trans women (Stonewall Uprising, June 28, 1969).  I am saddened that we cannot march this month (June) for Pride (one of the most transformative moments of my life a few years ago) so, in solidarity, I watched Disclosure last night, and The Death and Life of Marsha P. Johnson and From Selma to Stonewall: Are We There Yet? tonight, all fascinating and eye-opening, as well as horrifying.  We believe we've come so far, and there are still many murders of transgender or gender non-conforming people (27 in 2019, and already 16 in 2020).  When will it stop?

SONG:  Love Don't Need a Reason by Michael Callen

BOOK(S):  We Are Everywhere: Protest, Power, and Pride in the History of Queer Liberation by Matthew Riemer, Leighton Brown

Julián Is a Mermaid by Jessica Love

POEM:  A Litany for Survival by Audre Lorde

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;

For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.

And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive.

QUOTE:  “When all Americans are treated as equal, no matter who they are or whom they love, we are all more free.” ~ Former U.S. President Barack Obama

Take Me to Tomorrow (John Denver)

Another "interesting" week.  Trump's approval rating continues to go down although, sadly, Florida's confirmed cases of coronavirus are on the rise, substantially.  We've edged up the last few weeks from 3,000 to 4,000 to 5,000 (daily!), and today registered almost 9,000.  Yikes.  Masks, people.  It's not that hard.  As Leonard Pitts said in his 6/25/20 column, "...listen to the experts. After all, they don't know who you voted for.  And the virus doesn't care."

Two Zoom calls this past Tuesday, in the morning with Nancy and Judi, and the evening with Brian, Robby, Reba, Dave, Nancy, and myself.  A patio visit with Reba Wednesday afternoon, followed by our regular Parlour Vegan trip (at this rate, I am working my way, happily, through their menu...  :-)  Another visit with Nancy to SusanP's place at the beach.  thankyoujesus, the water was calmer, but there was lots of seaweed plus a heat advisory (felt like 105!), which motivated me to order some watershoes for the next time (thanks for the idea, Nance!).  Heavily immersed in the novel American Dirt, which has had its share of controversy but is stunningly written and deeply engrossing.  Leftovers for dinner tonight.  Same old, same old.  So close to finishing the clearing/organization of the guest room closet.  Entertaining or having company would provide the impetus to just get it done, but no guests on the horizon, obviously.  Just the two of us since March 13.  As long as we can get Instacart groceries, a weekly meal (Chinese or Italian), and the occasional Amazon need-du-jour delivered, I'm okay with the limited face-to-face company.

As is tradition, five items below of beauty, interest, and humor to brighten your day/weekend/week.  Enjoy! 


~ Padma Lakshmi Finds a New Voice, Amplifying the Voices of Others:  “Taste the Nation” is her new series on Hulu, with 10 episodes that collectively expand and redefine the meaning of American food.


~ Rhinestone masks and $9 hand sanitizer: A COVID-19 store just opened at Aventura Mall:  Welcome to the COVID-19 pop-up store. May we take your temperature?


~ Who’s in the Running to Be Joe Biden’s Vice President?:  Here are 13 women who have been under consideration by Mr. Biden, and why each might be chosen — and might not be.


~ Although James Corden, Reggie Watts and The Muppets can't be together in a studio, the group comes together on video chat to sing The Beatles classic "With a Little Help from My Friends." Sing along with Kermit, Fozzie, Miss Piggy, Swedish Chef, Animal, Gonzo and so many more.


~ Virtual benefit concert to assist Academy of Music Theatre:  Some of the Pioneer Valley’s most notable musicians will virtually gather to perform songs that celebrate summer and raise funds for Northampton’s oldest performing arts venue.  “Summer Songs: A Virtual Benefit Concert for Northampton’s Academy of Music Theatre” will take place on July 1 at 8 p.m. and be live-streamed through the theater’s Facebook and YouTube pages.  The concert will feature performances from Valley favorites such as Dar Williams, Martin Sexton, Mark Mulcahy, Heather Maloney, Winterpills, and more.


P.S.  Confession Time.  Yes, I consider myself a folkie, not quite going as far back as The Kingston Trio and The Limeliters, but definitely a fan of Peter, Paul, and Mary... then on to Joni, Joan, Crosby Stills and Nash, etc. (speaking of, I highly recommend Laurel Canyon, the two-part documentary on the Epix channel).  Weirdly, I never felt drawn to John Denver, who I considered too pop/syrupy for my taste.  Only just discovered today's post-titled song when I watched Banding Together:  A Concert for the Colorado Music Relief Fund, when Dave Matthews covered it.  Apologies to John Denver for underestimating his songwriting abilities.  Mind blown.


SONG:  Take Me to Tomorrow by John Denver (cover by Dave Matthews Band)

BOOK:  Tomorrow: Adventures in an Uncertain World by Bradley Trevor Greive

POEM:  Weather by Claudia Rankine

On a scrap of paper in the archive is written
I have forgotten my umbrella. Turns out
in a pandemic everyone, not just the philosopher,
is without. We scramble in the drought of information
held back by inside traders. Drop by drop. Face
covering? No, yes. Social distancing? Six feet
under for underlying conditions. Black.
Just us and the blues kneeling on a neck
with the full weight of a man in blue.
Eight minutes and forty-six seconds.
In extremis, I can’t breathe gives way
to asphyxiation, to giving up this world,
and then mama, called to, a call
to protest, fire, glass, say their names, say
their names, white silence equals violence,
the violence of again, a militarized police
force teargassing, bullets ricochet, and civil
unrest taking it, burning it down. Whatever
contracts keep us social compel us now
to disorder the disorder. Peace. We’re out
to repair the future. There’s an umbrella
by the door, not for yesterday but for the weather
that’s here. I say weather but I mean
a form of governing that deals out death
and names it living. I say weather but I mean
a November that won’t be held off. This time
nothing, no one forgotten. We are here for the storm
that’s storming because what’s taken matters.

QUOTE:  “That is the whole thing with the future. You don’t know. At some point you have to accept that you don’t know. You have to stop flicking ahead and just concentrate on the page you are on.” ~ Matt Haig

We March (Prince)

The poem below appeared on my radar this morning, and is really the reason/excuse for today's blog post.  I laughed, I cried, I raised my fist in solidarity.  Brilliantly perfect, perfectly brilliant... ✊


SONG:  We March by Prince

BOOK:  No!: My First Book of Protest by Julie Merberg, Molly Egan (Illustrator)

POEM:  Arrest This Poem by Richard Prins

A real poem will arrest its reader.
But it should also achieve things
its writer could get arrested for.
Personally, I have been arrested
for obstructing government authority,
criminal trespass, disorderly conduct,
and resisting arrest. I also want my poems
to resist, obstruct, trespass, and always
act disorderly (but most of the time
they just achieve public urination,
which won’t get you locked up in New York).

The first time I saw Prince
I was seven years old and afraid
of how much I loved him.
I mocked his falsetto
and asked my mother
if he was a boy or a girl
(the same question
posed to me by a child today
who broke from the sprinklers
to ogle my lime green toenails).

I was sitting beside the sprinklers
because my two-year-old loves water
ever since I brought a kiddie pool to Zambia,
and she splashed and drank so much of it
she wound up vomiting in the hospital
(I forgot the garden hose wasn’t potable).

If the word “Zambia” caught you off guard,
please remember that Zambia is a country,
and sixteen million people do live there
like my daughter did, happily, until
a week before Trump’s inauguration.
That’s when she moved to Brooklyn
because we didn’t think customs officers
would let her in the day they woke up
and realized they worked for a bigot.

When she was a baby, I flew often to Zambia.
Once my white seatmate asked if I was going
on safari. No; I was going to see my daughter.
“Oh,” her lips curled. “So she’s a volunteer?”
I was 28 years old then, hardly old enough
to have spawned a voluntourist. But truth
is just a maze I built myself to dwell in
with hedges trimmed short so strangers
can peer in, or leap out if they don’t like it.

Questions are less threatening
when they come from children.
Grown-ass Brooklynites
see my daughter’s skin
and ask if she’s adopted,
see her mother’s skin
and ask if she’s the nanny.
They rarely see us together
because we are not together,
so our little girl
shuttles between worlds,
her existence interrogated
by the curious, idle people
who never run out of ways
to let you know you don’t belong.

My last name is Prins, so I used to joke
I would name my first-born “The Artist
Formerly Known As” (tAFKa for short;
who wouldn’t want to rhyme with Kafka?).
I used to hold her in my arms and sing
medleys of Prince to lull her asleep
underneath a lemon tree in Lusaka.
I just can’t believe / all the things people say
Am I black or white / am I straight or gay?
Prince expanded my narrow sense
of life’s possibilities, and I hope
that same resplendent groove
will burst all the boxes and binaries
the universe may thrust on my daughter.
Jehovah’s Witnesses believe
144,000 folks are anointed
to rule beside Christ in the afterworld;
Prince earns my vote to join that little flock
(though I’m sure he’ll get disgruntled
by celestial hierarchies and scrawl
the word “sheep” across his cheek).

Tonight, a Prince-themed roller disco
takes place beside the sprinklers,
where the undrained water lurks,
lashed by purple strobing lights.
I’m sipping a flask outside the rink
in my purplest dashiki, afraid to go in
because I came swaddled in self-pity
and the kind of unsexy lonesomeness
Prince tried to expunge from the earth.
I can’t summon the courage
to join the free beautiful people
and rent a damn pair of skates
even though I thought nothing
of obliging three police officers
to drag me out of Trump Tower
with plastic handcuffs pinning
wrists behind my back, a grin
spreading mirth across my face.
When they placed me under arrest,
I didn’t wish to walk beside them,
so I decided to channel my daughter:
if it’s time to leave the sprinklers,
she’ll stage a sit-in, limp as a fish.
Shoulders vanish inside her blades,
forcing me to lift and carry her away
just like the cops carried me away.
I have committed more poetry
putting my body on the line
than regurgitating my mind.

After Charlottesville, I took my toddler
to march against our Nazi-Coddler-
in-Chief. A puppet wore a Trump mask
and wielded a goofy, bloodstained axe.
The mingling protesters adored
my baby, who snuck up and roared
at Trump while we booed and hissed.
The puppet blew us a smarmy kiss.
But soon concern was sprawling
across the face of my daughter,
who will race to pat the shoulder
of any playmate she sees bawling.
Now she wished to console
this papier-mâché ghoul
getting bullied by Rise & Resist
and our rowdy troupe of activists.

“Daddy, I wanna hug the puppet!”
But that wouldn’t be good optics
with all the cameras flashing
and the world around us crashing
thanks to Trump’s unslakable thirst
for blood, attention, whichever comes first.
Maybe he needed more hugs as a youth,
and my baby unveiled an indelible truth
that good and evil are just binaries,
which need to be deconstructed.
But the world’s on fire, so fuck it—
I’m with the shrieking canaries.
I whisked her away like she was under arrest
even though pride inflated my chest
for my empathic little girl
growing up in a nasty world
that has already displaced her
and will continue to mistake her
for something simple, and slight.
May she teach me how to fight.

[Richard Prins: “In January 2017, two events radically changed my life: my daughter arrived in New York, and Donald Trump arrived in the White House. The spare time that I had previously devoted to poetry was now spent at playgrounds and protests. My solution was writing this poem about taking my baby to a protest. I considered it a remarkable feat of multitasking. I’ve been arrested several times since then at other Trump properties and the United States Senate. Civil disobedience is a bold, reckless, floppy, disruptive dance. Ideally, it’s also backed up by meticulous planning, theory, conviction, and community support. In other words, just about everything I could ask for in a poem.”]

QUOTE:  In a Q&A session on Goodreads, someone asked author Roxane Gay:  "Can you tell us a two-sentence horror story?"

Her reply:  "Donald Trump is president of the United States. One time, he suggested people inject themselves with disinfecting household cleaners."

N***** Lover (Grant Peeples)

[thanks to MegHS for always keeping me apprised of Mrs. Mallard and family's (Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack and Quack) connection to the political climate... 💗 ]


I have no doubt you all were devastated... devastated, I tell you... that I did not offer up my usual Wednesday post yesterday...  ;-)  "Where is she?  Is she okay?  What else is going on to cause this blip in her like-clockwork M-W-F blog schedule?!?"  Ha ha ha ha ha!  I actually already had something planned, and ready on Tuesday afternoon to hit Publish on Wednesday morning, when Tuesday night found me logged into Grant Peeples' (a gravel-voiced, singer-songwriter/poet/provocateur in the best possible way, who I was lucky to present four times at our UU church Labyrinth Cafe concert series) Clay Tablets, a monthly online streaming show:  "art, music, poetry, guests, prose, viewer mail, video, photography, philosophy"...  :-)

The guest interview was with Carrie Elkin (via Grant's cell phone); May was Steve Poltz.  It was a wonderful hour of cheer as well as thoughtfulness...  and I loved the chat aspect, with many music-loving friends in attendance:  BrianW, RobbyG, BeckyA, Sparky, LouiseB, AmiliaS, even Carrie's mom Donna.  I was so inspired by Grant's song and shared poem (below) that I completely recalibrated my offering, which took a bit more time and effort.  Also invited Nancy on a short road trip for a patio visit with Reba, bringing her romaine and raisin bread (hmmm, title for a song or memoir?).  Then stopped at Parlour Vegan on my way home to pick up a previously-placed order of tamales, empanadas... and guava pastellitos for my husband.  Home by 3 p.m.  Out of steam, tired, done.  Leftover Sicilian Supper for dinner, finished my book (Shrill by Lindy West), then capped off the evening with two episodes of The Durrells in Corfu.  I've gotten very attached to this family and their various escapades of life on a Greek Island, and will be sad when I get to the end of Season 4... 😢

And that's why I was a day late in posting!


SONG: Nigger Lover by Grant Peeples (lyrics below)

“You're a nigger lover and I don't like your looks
Just you wait till the school bell rings
I'm gonna whip your little nigger loving ass
Can't wait to smash your stupid face in
I hate your guts, nigger lover”

Yea, that's what they called me
on the playground at school. But that was a lotta
years ago, and those kids have all grown up and
they don't use those words any more
– hardly
No, these days they use other words
They say other things, thing like

“You're a liberal socialist, a Communist activist
And you're gonna see in the next election
We're gonna snatch our country back for real Americans
We'll be proud again, stand tall again
Gonna put an end to all you bleeding heart liberals”

Yea, that's what they say NOW days
That's what you hear
But they haven't changed, and I know they still mean:

“You're a nigger lover and I don't like your look
Just you wait till the school bell rings
I'm gonna whip your little nigger loving ass
Can't wait to smash your stupid face in
I hate your guts, nigger lover”

I hate your guts...”

~ words and music, copyright Grant Peeples - LeftNeck Music - SESAC

BOOK:  How to Be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi

POEM:  by Haroon Rashid

We fell asleep in one world, and woke up in another.
Suddenly Disney is out of magic,
Paris is no longer romantic,
New York doesn’t stand up anymore,
the Chinese wall is no longer a fortress, and Mecca is empty.
Hugs & kisses suddenly become weapons, and not visiting parents friends
becomes an act of love.
Suddenly you realise that power, beauty & money are worthless, and can’t
get you the oxygen you’re fighting for.
The world continues its life and it is beautiful. It only puts humans in
cages. I think it’s sending us a message:
“You are not necessary. The air, earth, water and sky without you are fine.
When you come back, remember that you are my guests. Not my masters."

QUOTE:  “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.” ~ James Baldwin

I'm On Your Side (Michael Franti & Spearhead)

[Finally!  June 3, 2020 update:  Attorney General Keith Ellison upgrade charges against officer who knelt on George Floyd's neck; charged other 3 involved:  The charges come just days after Gov. Tim Walz asked Ellison to take over the prosecution.]

8 Minutes and 46 Seconds: How George Floyd Was Killed in Police Custody:
The Times has reconstructed the death of George Floyd on May 25. Security footage, witness videos and official documents show how a series of actions by officers turned fatal.


My sister Mari initiated a thoughtful conversation, via text, with me and my daughter Sarah a few days ago, which allowed me to state my feelings on the George Floyd situation in particular, and racism in general.  I disagree with the vandalism, arson, and looting but, to quote Leonard (below), "Enough!".  If this is what it takes to be heard, I understand.  It is crazy that we live in a world in which Jogging While Black and Driving While Black and even Breathing While Black are reasons for murder, by police or anyone else. I can't fathom why people are more outraged by the destruction of property than they are by the senseless killings of People of Color, for decades... centuries.

Why are blacks’ anguished cries of “Enough!” never enough to stop the brutality? | Opinion by Leonard Pitts, Jr.

My new favorite word, as used in Leonard's column:
quiescent [ kwee-es-uhnt, kwahy- ]
adjective
being at rest; quiet; still; inactive or motionless:
a quiescent mind.


It is a matter of being aware of the injustice in the world, and how we, from our entitled place, can help but never truly empathize.  I felt helpless as well as enraged watching that video.  thankyoujesus for cell phones recording the truth.  At this point the officers have been charged, and we will wait to see if they are convicted (as many are not).


And, from Glennon Doyle's recently-published book Untamed, p. 206-210 (thanks to my daughter Sarah for reminding me of these passages):

"  “No, listen—this feels to me like we’ve hit rock bottom! Maybe that means we’re finally ready for the steps. Maybe we’ll admit that our country has become unmanageable. Maybe we’ll take a moral inventory and face our open family secret: that this nation—founded upon ‘liberty and justice for all’—was built while murdering, enslaving, raping, and subjugating millions. Maybe we’ll admit that liberty and justice for all has always meant liberty for white straight wealthy men. Then maybe we’ll gather the entire family at the table—the women and the gay and black and brown folks and those in power—so that we can begin the long, hard work of making amends. I’ve seen this process heal people and families. Maybe our nation can heal this way, too.”

   I was adamant and righteous. But I’d forgotten that sick systems are made up of sick people. People like me. In order to get healthy, everybody has to stay in the room and turn themselves inside out. No family recovers until each member recovers. 

       Soon after that conversation with my friend, I sat on my family room couch and patted a spot to my left and one to my right. I said to my daughters, “Come here, girls.” They sat down and looked up at me. I told them that while they were asleep, a man who was white had walked into a church and shot and killed nine people who were black.

   Then I told my daughters about a black boy their brother’s age, who was walking home and was chased down and murdered. I told them that the killer said he thought the boy had a gun, but what the boy really had was a bag of Skittles. Amma said, “Why did that man think Trayvon’s candy was a gun?” I said, “I don’t think he really did. I think he just needed an excuse to kill.”

   We sat with all of this for a while. They asked more questions. I did my best. Then I decided that we had talked about villains for long enough. We needed to talk about heroes.

   I went to my office to find a particular book. I pulled it down from the shelf, came back to the couch, and sat between them again. I opened the book, and we read about Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks, John Lewis, Fannie Lou Hamer, Diane Nash, and Daisy Bates. We looked at pictures of civil rights marches, and we talked about why people march. “Someone once said that marching is praying with your feet,” I told them.

   Amma pointed to a white woman holding a sign, marching in a sea of black and brown people. Her eyes popped and she said, “Mama, look! Would we have been marching with them? Like her?”

   I fixed my mouth to say, “Of course. Of course we would have, baby.”

   But before I could say it, Tish said, “No, Amma. We wouldn’t have been marching with them back then. I mean, we’re not marching now.”

       I stared at my girls as they looked up at me. I thought of my dad in that therapist’s office all those years ago. It was as if my girls had turned to me and asked, “Mama, how do you imagine we might be inadvertently contributing to our country’s sickness?”

   A week later, I was reading Martin Luther King, Jr.’s, famous essay “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” and I came across this:

       "I must confess that over the last few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action.”

   This was the first time I had encountered language that defined the kind of person I was in the world. I was a white person who imagined herself to be on the side of civil rights, because I was a good person who strongly believed in equality as the right idea. But the white woman Amma had pointed to in that photograph wasn’t staying home and believing. She was showing up. When I looked at her face, she didn’t look nice at all. She looked radical. Angry. Brave. Afraid. Tired. Passionate. Resolute. Regal. And a little bit scary.

   I imagined myself to be the kind of white person who would have stood with Dr. King because I respect him now. Close to 90 percent of white Americans approve of Dr. King today. Yet while he was alive and demanding change, only about 30 percent approved of him—the same rate of white Americans who approve of Colin Kaepernick today.

       So, if I want to know how I’d have felt about Dr. King back then, I can’t ask myself how I feel about him now; instead I have to ask myself: How do I feel about Kaepernick now? If I want to know how I’d have felt about the Freedom Riders back then, I can’t ask myself how I feel about them now; instead, I have to ask myself: How do I feel about Black Lives Matter now?

   If I want to know how I’d have shown up in the last civil rights era, I have to ask myself: How am I showing up today, in this civil rights era?

   I decided to read every book I could get my hands on about race in America. I filled my social media feeds with writers and activists of color. It became very clear very quickly how strongly my social media feeds shaped my worldview. With a feed filled with white voices, faces that looked like my own, and articles that reflected experiences like mine, it was easy to believe that, for the most part, things were fine. Once I committed myself to beginning each day by reading the perspectives of black and brown people, I learned that everything was, and always has been, quite far from fine. I learned about rampant police brutality, the preschool-to-prison pipeline, the subhuman conditions of immigrant detainment centers, the pillaging of native lands. I began to widen. I was unlearning the whitewashed version of American history I’d been indoctrinated into believing. I was discovering that I was not who I imagined myself to be. I was learning that my country was not what I had been taught it was.

   This experience of learning and unlearning reminded me of getting sober from addiction. When I started to really listen and think more deeply about the experiences of people of color and other marginalized people in our country, I felt like I did when I first quit drinking: increasingly uncomfortable as the truth agitated my comfortable numbness. I felt ashamed as I began to learn all the ways my ignorance and silence had hurt other people. I felt exhausted because there was so much more to unlearn, so many amends to be made, and so much work to do. Just like in my early days of sobriety from booze, in my early days of waking up to white supremacy, I felt shaky, jumpy, and agitated as I slowly surrendered the privilege of not knowing. It was a painful unbecoming.

       Eventually it became time to speak up. I started sharing the voices I was reading, and speaking out against the racism of America’s past and the bigotry and strategic divisiveness of the current administration. Every time I did this, people got pissed off. I felt okay about this because I seemed to be pissing off the right people. "


So, what can WE do to effect positive change?

RevAmy mentioned this in our "lovestreaming" UU church service yesterday: 26 Ways to Be in the Struggle

Now is definitely a time for growth opportunity for those whose hearts are in the right place.  I am a long-time peaceful protester (mostly feminist- and environmentally-related) but, much as I want to get out there, I will not risk my health by taking to the streets.  Because of my decimated social life, I have extra money, and have decided to donate to Together Rising, Glennon's organization. She speaks her truth, which also happens to be mine.  I trust her judgment as to where she allocates the money.


SONG:  I'm On Your Side by Michael Franti and Spearhead

BOOK:  Making All Black Lives Matter: Reimagining Freedom in the Twenty-First Century by Barbara Ransby

POEM:  Choke by Karim Eltawansy

A tattoo of birds
in the cage
of my throat.

I can’t breathe.

The world
is an eye
open to the

sun.

How many poems
do you have
by dreaming

of fire? of water

too late, too little
of breath
on the feathers

a naked cat

is sculpted into a
sphinx.

Tell me: the sculptor
was using his
fingers as

a ruler: his palm

a throne. I hold
all of life in
my throat. I hold

the 7th heaven

on my devil’s whisper. A genie says:
what a genie says:
I’m not available right now

get in the car.

The lamp holds
nothing to the candle
wish of tongue, holds

a shadow in the corner
of my eye: blink
thrice if a baton chops

because someone says, gravity. I’ve heard

a lot of songs about misery, but
never felt a bullet
slash through my body’s

grass limbs. Had I

to describe this membrane
what its body looked
like in breath

in its lover’s casket: I say,

brave, one syllable drops
at the speed of exhale: one
Marlboro tastes like

a carcass: if you ask
me about Africa I’ll
point my thumb down

the chamber, stick my
head in the camera
lens, fall into

black, black, black
everything—birds
included.

QUOTE:  “Breathe. Breathe deep and pure and smooth. Concentrate on it. Breathing is the pace you set your life at. It’s the rhythm of the song of you. It’s how to get back to the centre of things. The centre of yourself. When the world wants to take you in every other direction. It was the first thing you learned to do. The most essential and simple thing you do. To be aware of breath is to remember you are alive.” ~ Matt Haig