Kids, Freaks, Karaoke

Yesterday was quite the day. The best of the bay and my life rolled into a less than 12 hour stretch of time. There seemsto be so much going on this weekend, I can barely keep up, but I'm tryin', folks, I am tryin'.

First was a one-year birthday party for baby J. at Lake Temescal in Oakland. One year of life on earth is a big deal, and the birthday boy was taking it all in stride, and didn't seem tired at all the whole time we were there. He was playing and jumping on his lil' one-year-old legs with all the other babies and kids, including my godson K., whom I only got to see for a short while since we had arrived late. His mom had just fed him so he was nice and full and happy (and heavy! I swear the kid's gained weight since I saw him two weeks ago), and smelled fresh and clean and innocent as only babies can. H. and I consumed small portions of BBQ chicken, hot dogs and potato chips, and were a little taken aback at the lack of rice at this Filipino-Vietnamese family shindig, but there was some shanghai lumpia and remnants of a grilled salmon that had been devoured by the party-goers that actually came on time (a novel concept, eh?).

I'd forgotten how nice Lake Temescal is, and it was especially lovely yesterday afternoon, partially because the weather was so warm, that perfect Oakland weather, and partially because the park was nearly empty, a shock on a nice day like yesterday. So H. and I enjoyed the sunshine and heat while we caught up a bit with folks we hadn't seen in a while--H. ran into his old DJ-buddy M., whose girlfriend C. I know, small world--and took a quick walk around the park. The place brought back some old, buried memories for me: it was the park that my ex and I had planned o have our wedding in. Going back there now, I marveled at how I could pick such a spot for my wedding. The park is nice but it's right next to Highway 24, and you can hear the steady buzz of cars zooming by as you stand among the redwoods. But I was a different person back then.

After the baby-party, H. and I did some quick thrift-store shopping--I got a cool kelly green shirt that shows off my shoulders very nicely--and then headed back to Frisco for the Writers with Drinks literary salon, held at the boho-sexy Makeout Room, which is one of my favorite bars in SF because of the friendly bartenders and eclectic crowd, and the stiff pint-sized margaritas ain't too shabby neitha'.

I wasn't quite sure what to expect, since I'd heard about WWD from a couple other writer friends, and then caught Marianne Villanueva's posting that she was going to be reading there this Saturday. Another event I've been to at the Makeout Room is the infamously fun burlesque show, which for a while was happening every Monday night but is now a not-so-regular occurrence there. The show was hot and diverse, featuring plus-size women, skinny-pole women, and in-between women of all colors, and the crowd was more than half women, many of them queer.

Well, the Makeout Room and WWD didn't disappoint last night. The MC, Charlie (like the perfume?) was a lithe tranny girl in a sweet lacy strapless dress that I was eyeing (I'm feeling the vintage stuff right now, can you tell?), and she was funny as fuck. She would go off on these wild imaginings while introducing each writer, proclaiming that one writer was Sonny Bono's secret gay lover, that another had started her own religion for lapsed Pentecostals, Mormons and Baptists, and that Marianne Villanueva was famed for her contributions to 'reverse geneology'--the science of trying to prove that you are not related to so-and-so.

Charlie's saucy introductions led to intriguing performances from the diverse and heavily queer lineup of writers, most notably from Will Franken, a brilliant stand-up comic who can both imitate the sound of a record playing backwards with uncanny skill and mock the 'John Kerry is God' political circus being played out before us with freakish skill. The man is a walking radio drama. Ryka Aoki de la Cruz, from LA-LA land, read some poignant and funny poems about childhood and killing insects and frogs. And porn-lit powerhouse Jack Fritscher rocked the crowd (and probably disturbed some of the non-hardcore folks, like myself) with his pre-AIDS, queer-punk, BDSM-style Robert Mapplethorpe-related fisting (yes, I said fisting) story.

H. and I were rolling and stimulated, shocked and awed by the freaks on the stage--and I say 'freaks' with the best possible intention. I'd been getting a little bored with the standard literary readings: nice, lyrical poems about washing dishes or death or vanilla heterosexual sex. And after living for the past year in Frisco I was beginning to wonder if this City still had the queer, radical, post-modern edge that it's so famous for. Well, folks, if you're looking for just one brief glimpse of that edge, check out WWD, and you'll see that it's there and gleaming and sharp and singular. And thank God.

I felt for Marianne, who had emailed me previously that she had never been to the Makeout Room and didn't know what to expect from the reading. I know her work would never fall under the 'erotica' category per se, but I was still looking forward to hearing her read amidst the glitz and red drapery of the Makeout Room. And she delivered gracefully, giving a shout out to the Pinays in the house (there were like four of us) and bravely delving into her nuanced story of a Filipino Everyman (is that an oxymoron? I don't think so), Vic, and his office love affair with a beautiful Vietnamese woman, Selena. I'm looking forward to the upcoming release of her new book--Mayor of the Roses--which she says should be out in early 2005.

And finally, copyright / intellectual property law attorney (I told you the lineup was diverse) Lawrence Lessig educated us all on the dangers, absurdities and general fucked-upedness of intellectual property laws. Read his blog to find out more, especially if you're a writer or artist of any kind. Deep stuff.

Oh, yes, and finally finally, H. and I stumbled through the Valencia street gentro drunkenness over to T.'s new digs--a POC Mission district mansion if I've ever seen one--to belt out some karaoke tunes for her 29th birthday. Good folks, loud singing out of tune, and alcohol. Who could ask for anything more?

Blessings,
Rona

Picket Lines and Picket Signs

Riding the 38L from the Richmond district to downtown has been more fun lately, since the San Francisco hotel workers (UNITE/HERE Local 2) strike and hotel owners' retaliation lockout started last week. Once the bus rolls past the Tenderloin, you start hearing workers with Filipino and Latino accents shouting Union chants--"Local 2, On Strike!"--over megaphones, and noisemakers raising a ruckus to disturb the breakfast-taking of the hotel guests. When the bus finally rolls by the Hilton on O'Farrell and Mason, I usually see about two dozen workers and supporters pacing in a long ellipse in front of the hotel's main entrance, and the sight always makes me smile. Organizing, I muse, (social justice nerd that I am) is a beautiful thing.

If you've got a few minutes or a few hours, drop by a picket and join in on the fun. Anyone who supports the (mostly immigrant and people of color) workers' cause-- they're asking for a reasonable contract that maintains their current health benefits and offers fair wage increases--can help out. The hotels that need more help because they have less workers and therefore have smaller pickets are:

Holiday Inn Civic Center on 8th Street south of Market
The Omni Hotel on California and Montgomery
Holiday Inns at Fishermans' Wharf

Also, on Tuesday, October 12th the union is holding a big rally to support the workers at 4:30pm at Union Square. For more info click here.

See you on the picket line or in the square!

Peace,
Rona

Ahh, Networking...And an Art Exhibit Not to Miss

So I finally got a much-needed boost of art and artist networking last night, after my bitching and ranting earlier about how the writers I know don't network (at least not for my benefit). Went with H. to the opening of the Paper Bullets: War with Words exhibit at Intersection for the Arts. It was H.'s invite, since our colleague/friend Christine Wong--a dope-ass painter, muralist, and activist-educator--was showing some of her work there.

What an intense show. Aesthetically, it was amazingly cohesive, considering the diversity of artists and pieces in the exhibit. Lots of bright, saturated color, lots of angles and three-dimensional pieces, images scooped from pop culture and mainstream media, harrowing and humorous wartime images, lots of wood and wood-like texture. The pieces included Christine's dream-like triptych of acrylics on paper and wood, subtly layering ad-like images over images of stockpiled bottles and Korean warning fliers distributed to American GIs during the Korean War.

The fliers--part of PSYOPS (Psychology Operations, or Psychological Warfare) efforts that are part and parcel to all wars--are the anchor and central theme of the exhibit (the 'Paper Bullets') and provide a fascinating and disturbing glimpse into the war for soldiers' souls that happened in WWII, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Gulf War, and more recently, in the U.S. wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. From the German PSYOPS fliers showing American women 'back home' cavorting with able-bodied, handsome civilians to Vietnamese liberation army leaflets exhorting African-American soldiers to withdraw from a war that was as racist as the treatment they faced back home, the old, yellowed slips of paper are a jarring and powerful reminder that wars are not just fought with rifles and tanks, but with emotion-provoking ideas and images as well.

There was also an interesting installation made up of balloons and handbills produced by the artist, similar to the PSYOPS fliers in the exhibit, but with an attached survey to be sent back to the artist, asking questions like "Is world peace inevitable?" and "What do you want more than anything else?". The installation included a video recording of the handbill 'drops' from the top of twin peaks, as well as the completed surveys that were returned from folks who picked up the fliers in the street.

This exhibit is crucial viewing in wartimes like these. I told Christine I was working part-time and writing the rest of the time, and mentioned that I was working on a fantasy/sci-fi novel. She replied, 'That makes sense right now, since the world is so surreal." And all around us was proof at how surreal and bizarre the world can be, how absurd and contradictory and yet, somehow, still beautiful.

Oh, yes, and of course the networking! C. and her husband M. were friendly and engaging, and introduced us to Scott Louie of Kearny Street Workshop and APAture and his girlfriend whose name escapes me right now (sorry!). And after knowing I was a writer for about 10 minutes, C. tells me, "Scott's a writer too. Rona, do you have a web site to look at?" Boom. That's it. That's what networking is about. Make a connection, exchange info (I directed them to this blog) and our community gets tighter, stronger and bigger all at the same time. It's really not difficult at all. And of course it did my ego good to be introduced by such a brilliant and respected artist as Christine.

Go see Paper Bullets, folks. Good stuff that makes you think. And go see Samina Ali at Intersection on Monday night, 8pm. I think I'll be there, somewhere in the back. Maybe someone will introduce us, eh?

Blessings,
Rona

Latecomer to the Scene

For the past eight years I've worked almost non-stop for social justice organizations--even co-founded one myself, which is now a fairly successful, widely-known activist school--and during that time, I didn't read much poetry. Sure, I'd buy a friend's chapbook and read a few poems, or purchase a poetry anthology of Fil-Am or Asian-Am writers, get some autographs, and read a few poems. But poetry was always a bit intimidating to me during that time, and now I know why: it demands of you that which is hardest to give--your own truth.

I've been a blocked poet for years now. Not since I was in college and reading poems at open mics and spoken word events have I really written much poetry worth holding on to. I've never even really called myself a poet, and won't now, despite the fact that half the pages I write these days are full of verse and stanza. I even got one of my poems published in Krip Yuson and Gemino Abad's Father Poems anthology. No, the title 'poet' seems to out there for me, too loaded. Maybe I've been taking myself and this poetry thing too seriously.

Now that I've given myself more time and space to write and to read, I've found myself drawn to poetry more strongly than ever before. Now that I'm allowing myself to claim that I am a writer and an artist, that I refuse to let my writing ability be used only for begging private foundations for grants or for organizational profiles on web sites, poetry is calling to me, and I am actually enjoying it, wanting to read whole books full of it instead of putting them away after a few short pieces trigger my panic-freeze of writer's (and reader's) block.

I recently read two poetry books that have been out for a while, Luis Cabalquinto's "Bridgeable Shores" and Devorah Major's "Where River Meets Ocean." I started to read Cabalquinto's book when it first came out a few years ago. I'd gotten it as a gift for a friend, who already had it, so I kept it for myself--but the poems didn't speak to me then, I couldn't get into it. I just salvaged the book from my 'to sell' pile about a month ago on some weird hunch, opened it up and fell in love with the first poem, "Depths of Fields." I devoured the book like I hadn't read a poem in years (and really, I hadn't). I like the way Cabalquinto talks about sex--playfully, without ceremony, as an everyday fact, as in 'Angelus':

Unashamed / I felt the world and nature's downy hand / run its fingers on my nakedness. / Aroused, / and wanting the moment's celebration, / I reached down for the gesture / of a pleased participant.

For some reason, I always thought Devorah Major was white. This has nothing to do with her or her work, because I never read any of it until a couple weeks ago. I think it had more to do with the fact that she was written up in the SF Bay Guardian a lot and I don't often see cool POC artists profiled in the Guardian (as much as I love the paper, they've got some issues). And I generally don't read many white writers, mostly because there's so many cool people of color writers that I'd rather read and support out there that I don't have the time.

In any case, I picked up "Where River Meets Ocean" a few weeks ago at City Lights, and turned to her "fillmo'e street woman" poem, which she read as part of her inaugural speech when she was named San Francisco's poet laureate in 2002. Having lived in the City for about a year now, I'm drawn to poets and writers who tackle the vibrancy and weirdness of this contradictory place. Major's voice sounds real to me, and she has a history of life in Frisco that few of the many artists that live here can ever claim. I like that her language is spare and plain, without unnecessary ornamentation or obscure vocabulary. From 'fillmo'e street woman':

she wore her nails / sculpted in red / in those days / when that street / when this street / was ours

she sat on a barstool / snapped her fingers / and hunched her shoulders / as smoke rose between / the bandstand and counter / and the scene / got hot and sultry / and the music / pressed out the doors / and down the street.

further down / she slid in at jack's / had another cigarette lit, / flashed her teeth, laughed / as the club spun tight / shoulder to shoulder / thick smoke and blaring saxophone.

I can read these two poets without reaching for a dictionary every five minutes or feeling like an idiot because I just don't 'get it'. Maybe that means I'm not a real poet. I don't really care anymore. I'm just happy to be reading and enjoying and writing poems again. And that's kinda cool.

Blessings,
Rona

Drunken Writers

Well, maybe not quite. But this Saturday is the next installment of the 'Writers with Drinks' salon at the Makeout Room in SF's Mission District (the Makeout Room does make some mean margaritas though--in pint glasses, no less). I haven't been to WWD yet myself, but am planning to go this weekend to support local-girl-made-good Pinay writer Marianne Villanueva, who is reading at the event. Here's the 411:

Writers With Drinks
Saturday, October 9, 2004
7:30 PM to 9:30 PM, doors open at 7
@ The Make-Out Room 3225 22nd. St. @ Mission, SF

Featuring...
Marianne Villanueva (Ginseng and Other Tales from Manila)
Seeley Quest (Crooked)
Ryka Aoki de la Cruz (Grand Street, Beyond the Valley of Contemporary Poets)
Jack Fritscher (Drummer Magazine, Leather Blues)
Lawrence Lessig (The Future of Ideas, Free Culture)

Blessings,
Rona

Another Wedding Post

This time, Chavajero has married his long-time long-distance sweetie (long distance as in half-way round the world!), S., in a small civil ceremony in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

C. is one of the most deserving of a sweet and precious relationship. I should know, I dated the man for two years! ;-)

Congratulations, my friend, and I wish you the best in everything you and your bride encounter in life.

Blessings,
Rona

We're Not Normal (And Thank God), Part II

"Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted."*—Martin Luther King, Jr.

Thanks Max for passing this quote along to me.

We Did It!

So I feel like I kinda jinxed myself yesterday with that pre-wedding post. Because when H. and I were driving down the street on our way to the wedding, we realized our back left tire was flat. SHIT! H. was the wedding DJ, had all the records, and was supposed to bring the sound equipment (which still needed to be picked up in Noe Valley and Bayview), and I had the coffee, tea and fuel for the chaffing dishes to warm up the food. The wedding was in Half Moon Bay. We live in Frisco. SHIT.

We made some calls, and L. (who was getting married) was remarkably calm. This woman has some serious grounding energy. She was like, 'We're cool, don't worry. We'll find someone else to pick up the sound equipment. Just get here safely.' I thought about the giant sea turtles in 'Finding Nemo' that sound like surfer dudes, mellowed out all the time. L.'s soothing voice chilled me out--a little.

While H. figured out tire-changing and necessary repairs I went back into the apartment, but I couldn't just SIT there. I had all this nervous energy and knew that everyone at the wedding site was setting up, getting dressed, hanging all the decorations and having fun. So what did I do? I cleaned. I was like Monica on 'Friends'. Seriously.

Now, I'm not a huge cleaning fanatic but I do like to keep things sanitary (notice I said 'sanitary' and not 'tidy'--the two are not synonymous. I'm a messy girl. Clean, but messy). So I busted out the broom, swiffers, bleach, and baking soda, washed all the dishes, swept the dining room and bathroom, disinfected the kitchen sink, cleaned the toilet and straightened up. I was like the Energizer Bunny with a broom and a sponge instead of a big bass drum. And you know what? I felt a helluva lot better afterwards. And I realized that if I didn't pour my energy into cleaning, I probably would've just ended up getting into a fight with H.--just because I needed something to do! (Did I tell you I have control issues? Well, I also have type-A issues too--at least when I'm in my 'get shit done' mode.)

We were supposed to get to the wedding site by 1pm, we got there at 3pm. Thankfully, there were other technical difficulties (lots of guests arrived late because the directions to the wedding were a bit off, one of my other food committee members had his car break down on him, and the food was a bit late too), so everything balanced out in the end. Thank Goddess.

And, yes, the wedding was lovely. We were out on the patio of a beach house, on the harbor, looking out into the water. The day was cool but not too chilly, and the sun came out towards the end of the ceremony. The ceremony itself was beautiful, a blending of American Indian, East Indian and African influences that reflected L. and V.'s values and heritages. There was drumming and chanting, singing and noisemakers, flute-playing and fire-walking. M.'s decorations made the place look fabulous, and H.'s DJ-ing got everyone up on their feet, as always. I even got on the 1's and 2's for my first-ever public set, spinnin' some salsa and merengue for the crowd. In the end, it was worth all the stress and drama, all the funny break-downs and last-minute changes.

It was love, pure and simple. And I'm glad I was asked to help make it happen. Thanks, L. and V. And congratulations, my sisters.

Blessings,
Rona

The Calm Before the...Wedding

So I've been helping our friends, L. & V., organize their wedding. Specifically, I was picked to be the food committee coordinator. Sheesh. As many of my friends know, I do love food, but mostly cooking and eating it. Coordinating a team of 6 people to order, pay for, pickup, deliver and otherwise manage food for a wedding of over 100 people is not something I am particularly expert at, or (I now know) that I particularly like.

But L. & V. are like family, so H. and I are doing a whole bunch to make their special day beautiful and blessed. It's a lot more work (and stress) than I anticipated it would be, but I'm hoping that it'll all melt away today under the sunshine by the ocean, and that whatever little crises and problems arise--I've fantasized about everything from the trays of Ethiopian food being catered for the dinner flipping over and splashing all over the floor to the cake just not showing up--I'll just let slide off my well-clothed back.

It's 9:55am and we are running a bit behind--H. underestimated how long it would take him to pack up his gear and get outta here--but I'm fairly calm and relaxed. I've done everything I was supposed to do--made all the calls, arranged for the pickups, and bought the coffee and tea goods--so I'm good to go. Now comes the hard part: letting go of my (significant!) control issues (hey, I'm a Capricorn, okay?) and let the Universe (and the rest of my food committee) take care of everything else.

Phew...I'm breathin', folks, I'm breathin'. This is not easy for me.

Blessings,
Rona

We're Not Normal

"Normal is nothing more than a cycle on a washing machine."—Whoopi Goldberg

Last night after H. and I had been giggling on the couch like children for a half-hour, laughing at some silly obscure joke that only the two of us would get, speaking in our secret language, he asked me, in all seriousness: "Baby, do you think we're normal?"

I sat quietly, thought about his question, looked away for a moment, then answered: "We may not be normal, but I think we're pretty happy. Isn't that all that matters?" In response to which he smiled contentedly and the giggles started up all over again.

Having recently spent a holiday weekend with another couple, friends of ours whom we both love dearly, I reminded him that they were silly too, had their own secret language, sat up giggling late into the night in their tent next to ours. H. finally conceded that he likes our strange, exclusive couple-dialect, the goofy names we call each other, the private little world we create when we are alone. Why else would we be in relationships with other people (romantic or otherwise) if they did not evolve into deeply intimate, comfortable sacs of precious time and enjoyment? Isn't that what we get out of our best relationships?

No, H. and I aren't 'normal' by most standards: he's a queer man, I'm a queer-leaning woman, we're in what is on the outside a 'straight' relationship; he hates sports, loves shopping, and is the neatest and most obsessive clothes-horse I've ever met; I practice Kali, love basketball, and throw my worn clothes in a pile where they wrinkle immediately; we'll most likely end up having a child before we get married (if we ever get married); we're still living out our romantic ideals of our 20s (with a 30s-ish twist of responsibility) traveling often and going on road trips with friends to faraway places; we are radical activists of color; we communicate well with each other and actually work out our problems; and we are both artists, delving deeply and often into our creative efforts like fish diving through the ocean depths.

No, we're not 'normal'. I don't long for the 2.5 kids and the picket fence house anymore. I did once, but when I had it within my reach, I ran away from it like I would run from a pretty but poisonous snake. That life may have made me feel 'normal' for the first time in my life, but I realized it wouldn't make me happy.

And isn't that all that matters? Yes. Happiness.

Blessings,
Rona

Two Unrelated (?) Phenomena

1. I'm sick. Haven't been sick like this in a while. Started feeling sick Friday morning, sore throat, achey, fatigued, the usual. Thought I didn't need to stay in bed all day so I ran a few errands for L. & V.'s wedding, which is coming up this Saturday. Even ate a Ben & Jerry's brownie sundae with vanilla and New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream (the latter is my favorite flavor). Bad move. Spent part of Saturday and most of Sunday laid up, exhausted and cranky. I know healing is not always comfortable or pleasant, and being sick this weekend gave me a good excuse to finally watch "Finding Nemo" (I loved it, of course), but I still don't like it. Pout.

2. I don't feel like writing. I had a spurt of creativity on Friday night and a few times on Saturday, but after reading a chapter from Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones about the dangers of being a 'goody-two-shoes' and showing up to the page everyday because it's what you're supposed to do, I decided yesterday to take a deliberate break, to let myself be 'bad.' I know, pretty pathetic, eh? Well, I called in sick to work too, that's bad, isn't it? Pout again.

Are these two phenomena truly unrelated? I wonder. They came upon me so quickly, almost simultaneously, perhaps my sickness and my deliberate no-writing-time are just ways to give myself a well-deserved break. I've been trying too hard to make things better, when maybe all I need to do is just let things resolve themselves (thanks, V.).

Peace,
Rona

Bitch/Rant

I've been known to be a complainer. But I'm been trying to change that, been trying to focus on the positive things in my life so that I can be a happier person.

But sometimes, you just gotta bitch. And there are plenty of things in the world to bitch about. For example...

I am a networker. Anyone who knows me well will tell you that I have a diverse, socially eclectic group of friends and connections, and I work them when I need to. I like to make connections between people who I think might want to talk to each other--people who have common interests, need help on a project, etc. My partner, H., a freelance graphic designer, can attest to my networking skills--at least 70% of his clients have found him through me. I've hooked up friends with new clients, new funders and donors, and probably a few 9-to-5 jobs too. In my mind, that's the way our 'community' is supposed to work--we connect with people, we help other people connect, we build a stronger community, we keep the work (and the $) in the 'Family', so to speak. We help each other out. Scratch each other's backs.

Yeah, I'm blowin' smoke up my own ass, but this stuff is all true. I can network well--usually better for other people than for myself, but that's another story. The thing I want to bitch about right now is the utter lack of networking / back-scratching I've witnessed within my loose circle of creative colleagues. In the political world, this is not the case: everyone networks and introduces up the yin-yang.

Maybe there's some secret password that hasn't been revealed to me yet? If that's not it, why is it that when I attend a reading, I never get introduced to anyone? I always seem to know half a dozen people in the room who know everyone else, but I never get to meet those everyone elses because my contacts are so busy talking themselves up or whatever it is that they do that I am left to my own devices. When I have subtly asked to be introduced to someone, the introduction is usually so nondescript that the person I wanted to meet is thoroughly underwhelmed. Most of the time, I end up introducing myself to people--I said I was a networker--but am always left feeling that I should be getting more help. I mean, I've helped a lot of people meet other interesting folks.

Is this just the way it is in our 'community', folks? Is it too much for me to expect that people will help me out in the interest of keeping our community going, and of helping another struggling artist out? Or am I just trippin'? Or am I just so bland and boring that no one wants to connect me with other folks? Maybe it's just that people think I know everyone already? (I'm the kind of person who introduces people to each other like 3 times just in case they haven't met already, so I just don't get the whole 'I think they know each other already so I don't need to introduce them' thing). This stuff is on my mind lately because I would love to be in a writing group--and I wouldn't mind starting one--but I don't feel like I trust folks I know enough (based on the 'to-each-their-own' individualism I've experienced) to ask them to read my still-tender writings, to be at that level of intimacy with me creatively.

Any insight on this phenomenon would be much appreciated--tips, hints, clues to the roots of this bizarre behavior. I, for one, am tired of doing all the work myself. I want some help, people! My back is fuckin' ITCHY!

Okay, I feel better now. Nothing like a good bitching session to make a girl feel right again.

R.

A Post-9/11 Timeline

This weekend, I said prayers for the spirits of the victims of the 9/11 World Trade Center bombings--both the attackers and those that were attacked. My Buddhist training has taught me that separation and refusing to see past our differences is its own kind of violence, and has helped me find compassion in my heart, even when all I want to do is scream and cry, enact vengeance on those that cause me suffering. And the aftermath of 9/11--felt deeply every day since for so many of us--is no different. If we continue to see the 'terrorists'--on either side of this war--as separate from us, as not us, we will never be able to come through these dark times into the light.

I woke this morning thinking of what has happened in the world and in my life since 9/11. I told H. the other day: "So much has happened since then, and it's only been three years. Think of what could happen next?" I was speaking more about the sweeping political and social changes that have occurred as a result of 9/11, but on a deeper level I was also speaking about my own journey, the changes I have experienced intimately. So much has happened, indeed, that these past three years have felt like a short lifetime in and of themselves, and while I fear the painful things that are sure to come, I am trying to look past my fear to the blessings that lie ahead as well.

So here, then, is one perspective on post-9/11 life:

9/11/2001-Terrorists use commercial airplanes to fly into NYC's World Trade Center and the Pentagon in Washington DC, killing thousands of civilians and transforming the Twin Towers into dust and rubble.

9/11/2001, 7am: I wake to hear Larry Bensky on KPFA on my radio alarm clark, frantically reporting that a plane has crashed into the Pentagon, and another plane has flown into the second Twin Tower. I am still half-asleep, nearly dreaming. I cannot believe what I'm hearing is true, think I must be hallucinating. I get out of bed and go to the television--pictures sometimes are necessary for us to believe--and see the now-infamous images of the Twin Towers collapsing, one after another, onto the earth.

I call every close friend I have. I even call my my ex, with whom I have a tenuous but charged relationship, because he was just returning from a trip to NYC and I am terrified that he was on one of those planes. I speak to him and find out that he just returned the night before, only hours before the planes were hijacked.

I am almost delirious with confusion, grief and rage. But I am not angry with the terrorists, not really--I am angry at the US government and military, and the corporate interests that control them, because I know, deep down inside, that they caused or at least allowed this to happen. My speech is peppered with many profanities, with panic and worry about the many friends I have in New York, and about the many people I have never known who are now dead, dead, dead. And for their families and friends who will never see them again.

I spend the day in a state of shock, drifting mindlessly to work--no one was there, too many chaotic reports that the Bay Bridge might be the target of another attack--connecting reflexively with the men in my life--I needed their solid strength, and even their vulnerability was a comfort--eventually taking the Transbay bus back to Oakland with JL. We walk around downtown Oakland, dazed and confused by all that was going on.

That night, Kali class at Pusod for discipline, community and warrior-training, and drunken revelry afterwards across the street with all who had flocked there for warmth, grounding and balance.

October 2001: The US bombs and invades Afghanistan, allegedly because the country is harboring Osama bin Laden, who has claimed responsibility for the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Americans right now are a bloodthirsty lot. I hear vengeance in people's voices, on the news. An eye for an eye. Blood for blood. Arab-Americans and Muslims are detained indefinitely with no legal recourse, for no reasons other than paranoia and racism. I am afraid and pray often.

I start work at the Youth Empowerment Center as its Executive Director, driven by my passionate belief that the organization will need my leadership in this fiercely jingoistic and reactionary post-9/11 period. All my activist and organizer friends are psychologically and organizationally brace for the worst. From funding cuts to the PATRIOT Act to the media and journalists ignoring our campaigns because of the overarching urgency to cover all things "War on Terror", we are not disappointed.

12/04: I celebrate my 30th birthday with three parties (one a beautiful surprise party thrown by my close friends). I am determined to exit my 20's with a diva-ish flourish and lots of music and dancing. People at my big bash in January tell me it's the best party they've been to in forever, and when am I going to throw another one? I smile knowingly--we all need the healing that gatherings like these bring, especially now.

1/02: I meet and hook up with H., 'The One.' We quickly form a close bond, and he is there for me in every way I need him to be. Especially when, late in the month, a mysterious and devastating break-in takes place at my job. We suspect that people who don't like us--not just random 'kids' from the neighborhood, whom the police dismissively blame for the crime--have targeted us in order to intimidate us. A new anti-war group has recently found refuge in our organization, and we do not think this break-in is a coincidence. A week after the break-in, an unknown man comes to my apartment--I could see part of his face through a crack in my blinds--and urinates on my doorstep, then runs away after I come to the door to confront him. I live in the back of the third floor of my building. There is no through traffic on my floor except for that of neighbors.

2002: A busy year. My relationship blossoms, but some old friendships are lost. Work is demanding. I start dancing again, performing with Alleluia Panis Dance Theater/Kularts in Heroes. It is good to be on stage again. I have missed the lights, getting ready backstage, the makeup, costumes and artistic cameraderie.

March 2002: The US invades Iraq, enraging longtime allies such as France, and setting a dangerous precedent for pre-emptive strikes against small and relatively nonthreatening Third World nations. A wave of direct action hits the streets of San Francisco and all over the world and is met with police aggression, further radicalizing a whole slew of young people who want to change the world. Over the next two-plus years, ANSWER and United for Peace and Justice stage marches, rallies and actions, mobilizing hundreds of thousands of people into the streets to protest this unjust war. But is war ever really just?

December 2002: I celebrate my 31st birthday. H. organizes--all by himself--a small party for me at a Thai restaurant in the Richmond district. Birthdays are often touchy for me. Coming so close to Christmas, they often get forgotten, or I get those 'birthday-Christmas' presents that I find somewhat insulting. But this birthday is perfect: mellow, warm, full of good food and good conversation with friends. Gura M. remarks afterwards that I should hold on to H. She has never seen me so relaxed. I let him handle everything that night. I allowed myself a night off.

2003: The war in Iraq intensifies, despite Georgie Jr.'s declaration in May that major combat is over. I watch him on TV as he descends upon an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Middle East, fully outfitted in flight gear, as if he really is the Commander-in-Chief of this military operation. He is a puppet, a figurehead. But the troops cheer for him, young soldiers with families back home welcome him with embraces and smiles. I am so saddened and confused by these images. I turn off the TV.

July 2003: I go to Cuba with the Venceremos Brigade, participating in a challenge to the US embargo and its ban on travel to the socialist island nation. I wanted to go not only to be part of this act of civil disobedience against an unjust blockade, but to see Cuba for myself, see what a socialist country looks like, acts like. My trip to Cuba changes my perspective on politics and social movements, gives me a new historic lens through which to see my own activist work, and shows me that another world is indeed possible. A world where education and health care are free (although medicines are hard to come by and Cuban doctors often make less than taxi drivers due to the tourist trade), where music swirls all around you, and where corporate advertising is almost nonexistent. Where people have a clue as to what's going on in the world and don't see you as their enemy even though your country has caused them untold suffering.

In Cuba, I meet other brigadistas from Martinique and we speak a funny patois of French-Spanish-English, successfully communicating across culture and race. I tell them we have to fly from Cuba to Canada and then cross the border into the US, when Miami is just 90 miles away. They call our 'President' "un fou"--crazy.

In October, I move across the Bay to Frisco, not entirely voluntarily. I am sad to leave my beloved Oaktown, but I know I'll be back. It takes me two full weeks to really move everything out of my apartment, to say good-bye to the home that nurtured me during one of the most difficult periods of my life. I burn lots of sage, take my time cleaning up. When I am finished with my prayers of thanks, I lock the door behind me and don't look back.

Towards the end of the year, work has gotten more and more difficult. I think about moving on. In December, I take my winter holiday with H. in southern California, visit G. and family in a city by the ocean. We drive caravan-style to Palm Springs, where the quiet is pervasive and I can smell the scent of Hollywood money wafting through the air. I take my first trip to Joshua Tree, an hour or so away, and am stunned by the calming formations of rock and sand that at times look like human figures, at other times like otherworldly mountain ranges. The park is huge, and although we drive around for two hours exploring, we are only glimpsing its possibilities, its beauty.

December 2003I celebrate my birthday with H. in Palm Springs, quietly, with good wine and so-so food. The stars above us in the desert sky are mesmerizing. I don't really want to leave. The next night we spend New Year's Eve G., M. and the kids, basking in the warmth of the true family we've created for ourselves, guiltless that our blood families are far away and, perhaps, missing us.

2004: The war in Iraq continues, and recently the death toll of just American GIs has hit the 1,000 mark. I am incredulous that the humanity of Iraqis--the people we are supposedly fighting for--is so ignored in the media. Rarely do media outlets report on the total death toll of Iraqis, including civilians who are not part of the fighting. Maybe it's because the Pentagon doesn't release those figures. Doesn't anyone want to know?

In February, I quit my job. The situation at work has become untenable. I cannot continue there in good faith. I know it is best if I leave. It hurts for everyone involved, but sometimes what is healthy for us is also painful. In the long term, I know everything will be okay.

I start writing again. I vow to only work part-time, to let my writing and creativity become the main priority in my life. I begin my study of Buddhism and Buddhist meditation. Although I am resistant, I wonder about this non-violent approach to life, to one's own spirit. I find great rest in these practices, and a deepening of my understanding of myself that I had not thought possible. A new world of possibilities, like the opening of a lotus blossom, seems to reveal itself to me through meditation.

In May, I attend Movement, Detroit's free, three-day electronic music festival. I fall in love with techno music--a surprise--but am disappointed by the lack of house and 2-step at the festival. Still, it is an amazing experience, being surrounded by dancing crowds in Hart Plaza and feeling safe, like I belong here. I take a picture of H. with one of his idols, Kevin Saunderson. He is smiling like a child, spontaneous and happy.

I start this blog in July. And here I am.

9/11/2004: The RNC is over. But the "War on Terror" continues. On the homefront, over 1600 protesters (and some innocent bystanders who got pummeled by the cops anyway) were arrested at the RNC, 1400 more than were arrested during the 1968 Chicago Democratic convention. My friend Oscarchoy tells us all about it, blow by blow. The resistance gives me hope, makes me realize that people are still willing to put their bodies on the line for justice, for what they believe is right.

The Presidential elections are to take place in 8 weeks. I am frightened and excited about what the future may hold. I have been hesitant about going to a 'swing state' to register voters--wondering if that's the best use of my energy politically--but I know I must do something to make sure Georgie Jr. doesn't get elected again. I don't like Kerry, don't think he's much better than Bush on some issues, but he is not George Bush. And somehow, right now, that seems like enough. Time will tell if I--and all the other committed activists out there doing their thing to turn out voters to the polls in November--am right. I cannot fathom what another four years of George Bush, Jr. will do to this country, to the people on the streets, in our communities. I don't want to envision it. I'm not going to.

I am hopeful, perhaps naively optimistic, that truth will win out in the end. I hope I'm not wrong.

Blessings,
Rona

B-days and Big-Ups

Belated birthday greetings to Eileen and Leny. Hope your next year on earth is blessed.

Big-ups to fellow poet Oliver de la Paz and to my homie Chavajero in Buenos Aires for linking to my blog.

More big-ups to another funny-as-fuck comedian (see post below), Margaret Cho, whose blog I just found via Oliver's, proving my point that these comedians are pretty radical folks who serve the people by making us laugh at all the political absurdities that abound in our world.

One last big-up to Moveon.org, which is kicking major right-wing ass with its to-the-point, down-home TV commercials that really speak to everyday folks. Give money to Moveon.org if you haven't already done so, people--unless you're a masochist and want to witness another four years of Georgie Jr. destroying our environment, our diplomatic relations with long-standing allies, and our economy.

Blessings,
Rona

Laughter Makes the Heart Grow Stronger

I watched an old Richard Pryor standup show last night--thanks to A. who lent it to us--called "Here and Now." I have to admit that my most recent memory of watching Richard Pryor was seeing "Brewster's Millions" about 10 years ago or more, so I'm not a Pryor expert. But the man had something to say, and made me realize how conservative, intolerant and regressive the USA has gotten in the past two decades.

"Here and Now" came out in 1983, when I was 11 years old and somewhat politically aware--I had wanted Mondale to win the Presidential election, more because he was an underdog than because he represented anything meaningfully for me--but not so aware that I understood how Reaganism was quickly and decisively shaping this country's image and ideology with right-wing reactionary sound-bites, full of vague visions of a "City on a Hill" and other such crap. In the meantime Reagan's policies helped to rapidly create the now-ubiquitous urban "homeless problem", and secured the US's reputation as an imperialist, war-mongering world superpower.

So if I'd seen "Here and Now" when I was 11--my parents let me watch R-rated movies now and then--I wouldn't have understood the political references that are sprinkled throughout, such as Pryor's quips about:

US intervention in El Salvador: "Yeah, we be sendin' advisors down there and shit. It's like [gestures as if taking out a gun and pointing it towards an invisible victim] BOOM! 'That's how it goes, son. Take my advice and do it that way.'"

Meeting President Reagan-: "I met the President, and I'm tellin' you, we in trouble...I could tell the man didn't like me....He's look like a dick. Not even a hard-on. But just a dick with clothes on. That's why he want them MX's and shit, so he can get off: 'Shoot one of those big babies off!'"

After spending time in Africa: "I know how white people feel in America now--relaxed. 'Cuz you hear a police car comin' and you know it ain't comin' after your ass."

On how Mexico lost much of its territory to the US: "Fucked around negotiatin' with white folks, lost all that shit...they shoulda just kept they mouth shut and say, 'No, this is mine and I don't want no deal or nothin'. Keep yo' shit.'"

Although I love Dave Chappelle and his show, as well as Chris Rock, I can feel that they're both way more radical than they can come off on screen, partially because they probably have to tone down their politics because we live in such conservative times (just look at the smack-down Bill Maher got for calling the US 'cowardly' in the face of terrorist suicide bombers).

Richard Pryor was living and working in a different time, before corporate media consolidation and censorship were taken as givens and the left still had some kind of base. Pryor could get away with saying some cool shit and still be biggest standup comedian of the 1980s.

Of course, he is funny as fuck. After an hour of watching him, I could feel my heart swell with hope--hope that laughter can help us see some of the big truths about ourselves and the world we live in that we'll need to survive these crazy times.

City Life

I've spent the last few days readjusting to City life again after camping in the forest (btw, I kinda felt like an Ewok, all camped out in the middle of a redwood grove--like I was on the forest moon of Endor). I don't think I'm re-adjusting as well as H., my partner, who jumped right back into the noise and heat of the City (what is up with this crazy heat wave, peoples! It's fuckin' 80 degrees in San Francisco!). Maybe I'm more of a hippie at heart than even I thought possible, or maybe City life is just not all it's cracked up to be.

I have this ear condition that's been bothering me for the past year or so, ever since I got a weird ear infection that was so painful that I actually took antibiotics for it (I'm not a big fan of Western medicine and rarely take their pills, so you know it was bad). Not a smart move. Ever since then, I've had recurring ear pain and tinnitus (ringing in the ears) that gets especially worse when I'm out and about in the City all day, hearing Muni buses roaring down the street two feet in front of me, cars honking in rush hour traffic, people talking loudly on BART, etc. The doctors say my hearing is excellent, and that there's nothing wrong with me, but this pain persists and I can ever hear internally sometimes--as in, I can hear my blood beating inside my body. A nice metaphor for this period of introspection in my life, but kind of a pain in the ass.

All the noise that is part of City living is a big reason I'm having a hard time re-adjusting. After almost 4 days in the peace and quiet of the redwood groves, where the only sounds you hear in the daytime are ravens squawking here and there and birds hopping around looking for food among the fallen leaves, the urban din assaulting my being is at times almost deafening. Having lived in Oakland--which, despite its 'Boyz in the Hood' reputation, is much more tree-filled and a lot quieter than Frisco--for most of the past 13 years, I long for a slower, less hectic urban environment.

Or maybe I just want to be back amongst the redwoods, in my tent, surrounded by nature. I even made a s'more the other night to try to re-live my camping experience for a brief moment, but alas, it didn't taste as sweet. In fact, it tasted sterile and dry, like dust with chocolate.

But on a postive note, I did have some scrumptious Ethiopian food at Colucci's with L. and V. in Oakland the other night (the Segue Alicha is the bomb, if you eat beef)--and you can't grill that on a campfire stove, can ya? I guess there are some advantages to City life, after all.

Redwoods and Riverbeds

Just returned last night from a camping trip (my first in about 3 years) in Mendocino County's coast redwood forest, which is peaceful and lovely, and just what this stressed-out City-dweller needed to regain a sense of balance. I'd never really spent much time in California's redwood forests, and they are stunning--perfectly straight, elegant and stately living things, some of the oldest and definitely the tallest living things on the planet! I think I've fallen in love with them, which means I'll be getting a little obsessed with reading and learning about them in the coming months. Yes, I am a brown-skinned-city-slicker-tree-hugger-girl and proud of it!

I had no idea that only 4% of the old coast redwood stands remain, thanks to profit-driven logging efforts by lumber companies. At least one company, the Mendocino Redwood Company, which was the target of a campaign a few years back to save the redwoods from unnecessary logging, has committed to harvesting redwood lumber in a sustainable way. I don't know enough to know whether this is really possible--I'm always rather skeptical about 'green businesses' that grow out of the corporate world rather than the environmental or social justice setors--but I'm curious and plan to find out more. If any of you out in Blogworld know anything about these and other redwood conservation efforts, please email me.

We were camped out next to the South Fork of the Eel River, which is still pretty low this time of year, but there was still enough water in the two nearby swimming holes to wade in and cool off. It was trippy to think that in a few months, these nearly dry riverbeds--now visible and walkable and filled with smooth river rocks--will be flowing freely and possibly even flooding the land nearby.

Our campsite was tucked away in a small clearing of young redwood and other trees, giving it a calm, spiritual feeling that I will long remember. The morning sunlight peeking through the trees was gorgeous, and the chipmunks, squirrels and birds who scrambled around nearby reminded me to tread lightly. Even the loud, sometimes offensively racist, drunken white college kids camped nearby who disrupted my sleep every night couldn't keep me from enjoying the sparkling canopy of stars high above.

Hope your Labor Day weekend was equally enjoyable.

Blessings,
Rona

Another World is Possible

That phrase above has become the catch-all motto for the global justice movement, but far from being cliché I think it sums up perfectly the attitude we need to have if we are truly going to make change from the bottom up. So many people I know in my daily life--family, friends, people I meet on the street-and even people that I have worked with in the social justice movement lose sight of this--that despite all the fucked-up shit that's going on in the world, despite our imperialist government and the corporate media's control of our airwaves and all violence and war we see in the world, that another world, a better world is possible--and more profound still, another world is being built as we speak, by people all over the planet. Here's a good example, thanks to Leny, the Women's Gift Economy Conference in Las Vegas, of all places! If we can envision another world in the midst of Vegas neon and slot machines, I know it's got to be possible!

Now I'm really off to go camping. Just had to get my final blog spasms out the way before being Internet-less for the next four days!

Blessings,
Rona

Hero

Besides the fact that Donnie Yen--IMHO, the most to-die-for, gorgeous, talented and fierce kung fu movie star since Bruce Lee--is only on screen for about 15 minutes, there is no excuse to not see Hero, Zhang Yimou's epic spectacle of color, light, wind machines, stunning period costumes, beautiful actors and vicious kung fu and swordplay.

It's taken long enough for Hollywood to release this film in the US--a 2-year delay! I had to wait 2 frickin' years to see this movie on the big screen. And I refused to watch in on DVD until I'd seen it in a theater first. Just wouldn't have the same affect. And I have to say it's been worth the wait. I know a movie is good when it inspires me deep in my gut to want to get up and start swinging my kali sticks in concentric circles. (Or maybe it was seeing Tuhan slice the air at Gura and Rhett's pamanhikan). I also have a special T'boli weapon that I acquired more than a year ago but have yet to practice with. I think I need to get back into the swing of things before I bring it to class, though.

I can't figure out why Donnie Yen is not a huge star in the U.S. already--besides the fact that American audiences lack a sophisticated taste in martial arts films and martial artists. No offense to Jet, who is another favorite of mine, but Donnie's better-looking, just as good a martial artist and actor (if not better on the acting tip--I mean, did you see the scene in Iron Monkey when he tells his son not to cry?), and he has a spine-tingling screen presence that just lights up any scene he's in (Donnie's the only thing I remember about Highlander: Endgame, really).

The only explanation I've heard that makes sense as to why Mr. Yen is not a household name is this one: that maybe he doesn't want to be a big movie star. My friend D. thinks Donnie is quite content to direct his own films and do martial arts choreography and other behind the scenes work. I can see why that might be the reason, and it makes me like Donnie even more that he is so multi-talented. But I still want more Donnie on the screen, kicking ass and being beautiful. I want to see more Donnie, more Donnie, more Donnie! Don-nie YEN! Don-nie YEN! Don-nie YEN! (Whoa, I must've caught the RNC protest-chant bug from my comrades out on the frontlines in NYC).

Enough already, I need to go pack for my camping trip. Go see Hero already.

The Great Outdoors

I've been absent from posting to my blog for the last few days because I've been hella busy with writing, work and other political commitments (I'm a newly-recruited board member of Media Alliance and I'm going to be doing some facilitation work with SOMCAN in the South of Market neighborhood of SF), and getting ready for this weekend--I'm going CAMPING on the Eel River in Mendocino County, and I can't wait! H. and I are going with our good friends A. and N., two of my favorite people in the world, and super-committed activists themselves who rarely have a moment to spare, so having them to hang out with for three days is a real treat.

But despite my hectic schedule, I've had a little time to catch up on news about the RNC, including Oscarchoy's arrest-story, which gives you a fleeting glimpse into the world of police aggression if you haven't been lucky enough to be a first-hand observer yourself.

More later, I'll try to post once more before I take off for the great outdoors.

Blessings,
Rona

RNC News

Do check out Oscarchoy's reports from the midst of throngs of protesters in NYC exercising their First Amendment rights (do we still have those? Not sure sometimes). Good stuff, O-dog. Maybe it's just 'cuz Oscar and I go way back--and have spent many hours outside UC Regents' meetings (and homes and hotels) and at marches and demos shouting and giving the Man hell (or trying to anyway)--but O really made me feel like I was right there marching alongside her in mid-town Manhattan, amongst the chaos and excitement and the not-knowing-what's-gonna-happen-next vibe.

In any case, please please please folks don't just watch the evening TV or read your local city paper for news about the RNC. Do your brains and your civil liberties some good and check out the many good, solid non-sold out media outlets still left in this country (see my sidebar to the left for more details).

Oscarchoy Enters

Those in the know will know Oscarchoy's real identity, and those who don't won't care after they read O's splendid writings at Rods & Cones. Oscar caught the blog-bug in time to give us on-the-ground reports from New York City, where protests against the RNC (Republican National Convention for the less acronym-savvy) are getting underway. It's going to be a momentous battle, I'm sure--or at least, I hope, or else it'll be a helluva let-down for all us radicals who wish we were out there in the streets but are back here keepin' the homefires burning.

Welcome to Blogworld, O! Good to have you with us.

Blessings,
Rona

Good article on Hugo Chavez y Venezuela

Check it out onCommon Dreams. It's by Dr. Rosa Maria Pegueros, a Professor of Women's Studies at the University of Rhode Island.

I'm a bit obsessed with news about Chavez because I've heard from a few of my progressive/radical friends (none of whom have been to Venezuela) that they are skeptical about him, or that he is corrupt, or that they wonder if he is truly democratic, but I have yet to find a compelling, well-researched argument or news article that gives me any reason to question Chavez' claims.

So unless any of y'all out there give me something I should read that could convince me otherwise, I'm going to continue to give big-ups to the big man down in Caracas and support his Bolivarian Revolution in spirit, words and action.

In Peace & Justice,
Rona

Get Your Revolutionary Notebook Out...

You know, the one you're hiding with the pictures of Che, Ho Chi Minh, Frida, Huey Newton and Angela Davis on the cover (I would put others on there, especially revolutionaries from my homeland of the Philippines, but I'm too paranoid about the PATRIOT Act to risk it--really, check out the list of 'terrorist' organizations, folks). Bust out your pens and thinking caps, peoples, 'cuz there is some serious revolutionary knowledge spinnin' 'round the world these days. A few places to look:

1. Max Elbaum's new Revolution in the Air web site, loaded with syllabi from his popular classes on left strategy, reviews of his book, readings on left history, and other good stuff for revolutionaries of all stripes (except the right-wing variety, of course). And if you haven't yet bought a copy of Max's book (published by Verso), please do so. A detailed history of the Marxist-Leninist-inspired young radicals of the post-1968 era, it's essential reading for anyone who considers themselves progressive in the U.S, especially those who think that progressive politics and radical communist movements have nothing to do with each other.

2. Anything written or spoken by Vandana Shiva or Arundhati Roy. These women are brilliant, compassionate and truly revolutionary.

3. Walden's Bello's writings on globalization and free trade madness. His writing is sharp, accessible and relevant. He's the kind of intellectual I most admire. And he's a nice guy too.

4. Any Indymedia site, and there are dozens all over the world, on every continent on the planet. If you don't know already, Indymedia provides a truly democratic medium for grassroots activists and others to post their own stories, images and news about protests, social movements and politics in their local areas. No doubt there will be plenty of coverage in the coming week of my next pick....

5. News about the Republican National Convention, being held in New York City next week. The City is virtually on lock-down in preparation for the massive protests against the Bush regime and the Republican party's spectacle aimed at keeping Bush in office. More than 20,000 'law enforcement' officials, cops, what have you, trained in 'anti-terrorist' tactics and ready to rumble are stationed in the Big Apple. And there are reports of FBI agents trailing activists, etc. Oh where, oh where, has our democracy gone? (Oh yeah, we never really had one, did we?)

6. Democracy Now!, on your local Pacifica station or affiliate station. Especially good when the morning newspaper or the nightly news on TV has you ready to vomit or sink into a ten-day-long depression. DN! will pick you right back up.

So fill up that notebook and don't forget to apply what you've learned in the big, bad world out there. We need you to be with us.

Blessings,
Rona

I Have Absolutely Nothing to Say Right Now

Enjoy the silence.

How Suffering Can Be Our Greatest Joy

Yes, that's the title of the day-long, people of color meditation session I have signed up for today at Spirit Rock. I had signed up for this day a month or so ago, knowing that I needed to jump-start my meditatio practice--which, outside of my nearly-daily yoga practice, is sorely absent from my everday life.

But I didn't know then that suffering would be the theme of this retreat. And although I know enough about Buddhist philosophy to not take the words too seriously, I was still jarred and became a little anxious when I saw that title describing the retreat when I checked the Spirit Rock web site for directions last night.

Lord (Buddha) knows that I have had my share of suffering in this life, and have been slowly realizing over the past several months how suffering and abuse from my childhood is still (even after many years of therapy and self-healing work) affecting and impacting me in my daily interactions with myself and others. It has been a frightening, often overwhelming, but always worthwhile journey through my suffering into the light and fresh air of peace. And while I have had help along the way, I know that my spirit is strong enough to take on whatever challenges and fears arise for me as I sit and walk in mindfulness today.

I know that there is a reason I signed up for this particular retreat, which is about this particular subject. I know that fate and the spirits have lots of serendipitous surprises in store for us everyday, and that we must face them, accept them, and be thankful for them.

Wish me blessings and insights today. I hope your day is lovely.
Rona

List: Things to Smile About and Be Thankful For

Hearing from my acupuncturist today that he is the proud new papa of a 9-week old baby boy. Congrats!

Knowing that I will be seeing my acupuncturist soon after almost six months without treatments. My ears are still bothering me and I'm hoping he can help me heal myself for good.

My Pilates class at my gym. I can feel my "Core" getting stronger every week. My posture is gorgeous and I can do a mean body-roll now--look out!

Dancing, dancing, dancing. Did I already say dancing? All kinds of music, all kinds of movement.

Eating scrumptious, beautifully prepared food. Hung out with my old friend A. today at Liberty Cafe on Cortland in Bernal Heights. Warm roasted figs with goat cheese and walnuts, a chicken pot pie, and fresh lemonade (we split the dishes, I'm not that much of a pig!)

Seeing movies by myself. Just saw "The Story of the Weeping Camel" today. It's a foreign film set amongst the nomadic people of the Gobi Desert in Mongolia. Subtle, moving and gorgeous to look at. And who knew camels could have such emotional depth? ;-)

Coddling my inner child and watching cartoon-movies like Brother Bear. I still haven't seen Finding Nemo yet though (I know, already!).

Round-faced babies and small children smiling, laughing and playing (or even crying).

Knowing that I will have a baby of my own someday soon (no, I'm not expecting yet).

Hugo Chavez winning the referendum vote again (see previous post).

Being able to raise money for an organization that does kick-ass work fighting for true educational justice for California's youth.

Hearing from friends and acquaintances that they like, love or at least read my blog. Just heard from Chavajero that he reads all my posts. (The cynic in me is still waiting for the critics to come out of the woodwork.)

Being in a healthy, loving and beautifully evolving relationship. (Awwww...;-)

My circle of friends--some of the most thoughtful, generous, supportive, radical, loving, interesting, talented and overall brilliant folks that I know. I am honored to have them in my life (you know who you are!).

The Forbidden Book

I bought this book, published by T'boli Publishing, at the library event this past weekend. This collection of historic images is at once overwhelming, brutally real and downright crucial reading in these times of empire-building and people's resistance. You can order it by downloading the order form pdf here. I'm guessing you can also find it at East Wind Books in Berkeley if you are in the Bay Area (support independent bookstores!. Ok, had to get that off my chest). This from the book's launch announcement:

THE FORBIDDEN BOOK: The Philippine-American War in Political Cartoons
by Abe Ignacio, Enrique de la Cruz, Jorge Emmanuel, and Helen Toribio
Available August 14, 2004

A Chicago Chronicle cartoon in January 1900 showed President McKinley preventing Uncle Sam from reading the "Forbidden Book" about the "true history of the war in the Philippines."  Today, most Americans know nothing about a 15-year war with the Philippines that resulted in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Filipinos.

On February 4, 1899, the United States went to war based on a false claim that Filipinos began attacking American soldiers in Manila.  The first shots were actually fired by an American soldier as Filipinos crossed a bridge, and historians would later discover a "prearranged plan" by the U.S. military to precipitate a war as soon as an incident was provoked.  Misled by false reports, the Senate passed (by one vote) a treaty to annex the Philippines.  President McKinley would later justify the war by claiming that God had counseled him to take the Philippines in order to civilize and Christianize the Filipinos.  What was really behind the annexation was the need for overseas markets and raw materials for American industry.

Opposition to the war was led by the Anti-Imperialist League whose members included many prominent Americans including presidential candidate William Jennings Bryan, suffragist Jane Addams, labor leader Samuel Gompers, African American activist Ida Wells Barnett, and writer Mark Twain.  The "anti-imperialists" were branded as traitors by "pro-expansionists" and Filipinos were depicted as savages in order to de-legitimize their resistance to American occupation.  American opposition to the war grew as more and more American soldiers died and as revelations of military atrocities, torture of prisoners, killing of Filipino children, and concentration camps surfaced in media reports, military trials, and a senate hearing.  President Roosevelt prematurely declared the war over on July 4, 1902 but the last major battle was fought in 1913 and hostilities did not ceased until 1914.  Some readers may find interesting parallels between the Philippine-American War and events of today.

The book features eighty-eight colored cartoons taken from the pages of popular magazines, along with 133 black-and-white political cartoons reprinted from newspapers including San Francisco Evening Post, New York World, Washington Post, Boston Globe, Philadelphia Inquirer, New Orleans Times-Democrat, Minnesota Journal, St. Louis Republic, Detroit News, Denver Evening Post, Los Angeles Times, etc. as well as Life, Harper's and Collier's Weekly. Twenty-seven historical photographs are added to compare with the cartoons' stereotypical depictions.

The Introduction discusses America's economic transformation after the Civil War, the conditions facing the "other" America (immigrant labor, native Americans, Blacks, and Chinese), the Philippine Revolution for independence from Spain, Cuba and the Spanish American War, the decision to annex the Philippines, the start of the war, and the opposition to the war led by the Anti-Imperialist League. The Epilogue describes how the Philippine American War came to be forgotten and the aftermath of the U.S. conquest of the Philippines. The cartoons are divided into major themes and introduced by essays at the beginning of each chapter:

- Manifest Destiny and the White Man's Burden
- Government by Consent or Conquest
- He's One of the Big Boys Now
- Conquest and Commerce
- Civilizing the Savages
- The Filipino as a Racialized Other
  Experiences of the African American Soldier
  Hayop (Animal)
- Killing "Niggers" and Rabbits
  War Against the Moro People
- Mac and Aggy
- The Aunties are Coming

From the back cover reviews:

"The brutal war waged by the United States against the Filipino people at the turn of the century has been shrouded in darkness for a long time, the truth concealed from generations of Americans. THE FORBIDDEN BOOK brings that shameful episode in our history out in the open, with a wonderful combination of crystal-clear text and extraordinary cartoons. The book deserves wide circulation."
- Howard Zinn
Professor Emeritus, Boston University
Author of A People's History of the United States

"Brimming with insights into the beginnings of American imperial policy overseas, this book reconstructs an era that was to shape and refine U.S. intervention in the modern world. Through political cartoons in an era when the colonizer itself worked to hide the truth from the American people about the forgotten war a century ago, this book restores for the present generation a past marred by misinformation, racism, blind patriotism and outright lies. A thought-provoking education about the miseducation of the American people by arrogant imperial leaders whose successors never seem to learn the lessons of history. A particularly relevant book which makes it essential reading for the present generation of Filipinos and other colonial subjects of the modern PAX AMERICANA."
- Roland G. Simbulan
Professor of Development Studies & Public Management, and
Vice Chancellor, University of the Philippines

"In this extraordinary collection of political cartoons from the period of the Philippine-American War and subsequent colonization, frank visual satire and caricature vibrate with 'forgotten' histories from the turn of the 19th century: they link U.S. imperial conquests in the Pacific to those in the Caribbean, refract American perceptions of Filipinos through its devastating treatments of blacks and native peoples, explicitly admit U.S. ambitions to employ not only war, but education and culture, to surpass the reach and power of the European empires by the end of the 20th century. These 'forbidden' images are windows onto an earlier moment in the history of American empire, a history in which we still live and struggle today."
-Lisa Lowe
University of California, San Diego

Will They Leave Chavez Alone Now?

Probably not. If you haven't heard already, Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez has survived three, count 'em, THREE, referendum votes (that's 'recall' votes for the Californians out there). Can you imagine if former Governor Gray Davis had survived three recall votes and the Republicans still cried foul play? Well, that's what's happening in Venezuela, as the elite right-wing opposition to Venezuela's Bolivarian revolution, headed by Chavez, claims massive election fraud. This despite independent elections monitors including ex-U.S. President Jimmy Carter declaring that the election was fair and that Chavez is still the valid democratically-elected President of the country. Oh, did I mention that the right-wingers also own just about all of Venezuela's big media? And they STILL lost! Damn, that makes me happy! And it gives me hope that all is not lost in the world. Read more here.

And if you haven't seen "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" already, step to it! And let's pray that U.S. 'democracy' can one day be as engaging and vibrant and pluralistic as Venezuela's, where folks across race and class barriers have united to rebuild their society from the bottom up, using the massive profits of their nationalized oil industry to build schools, start clinics, create urban organic gardens and provide free health care and education.

If you're interested in checking out Venezuela's revolution yourself, email the Venezuela Solidarity Group, which organizes trips for North Americans. It's probably the only real way to know what's going on down there, since media coverage is not always reliable (I just went to a VSG reportback last week and it was truly inspiring).

Championing the Intellectual

I stole the phrase above from my friend J., an old college homie who stayed at me and H.'s place this weekend while he attended a big sociologists' conference downtown. An ABD sociology Ph.D candidate at USC who grew up working class, J.'s an interesting and funny character. The term "championing the intelletual" came up when while we were politickin' late last night, talking about his life as an academic, the isolation of the left, and the right-wing origins of the term 'politically correct', among other topics.

I told J. I was thinking about going into an MFA program in creative writing. He started laughing hysterically, expressing shock and amusement that I would even consider graduate school. "You are the most anti-academic intellectual I know," he stated between laughs, reminding me how I always ranted about hating school when we were at Cal.

That had to be one of the best compliments I've ever gotten. Really.

I used to be a much more vitriolic anti-academic intellectual; I've always loved reading, writing and debating about politics and society but hated the snobbish conformity of the ivory tower. My introduction to community and labor organizing in the mid-1990's only strengthened my dislike for higher education--as it exists in the U.S., anyway--by exposing me to brilliant grassroots leaders, mostly poor people of color who may not have even graduated high school let alone college. Many of these folks blew my college-educated peers out of the water when it came to critical analyses of society; they weren't just parroting back social change theory they'd read about in some book, but had formed their analyses based on their own experiences as oppressed people.

And these folks weren't snobbish about their knowledge. I've always been disgusted by the elite attitudes of college-educated folks, especially people of color, who should know better. Years ago I went to dinner with a (highly educated) couple I know well, accompanied by a man I was dating who happened to lay tile for a living. I marveled at the utter condescension that the couple displayed towards my date--gossiping about friends from college and discussing politics in a name-dropping, exclusionary way. And these are folks that consider themselves liberal if not progressive.

I've always prided myself on the fact that, although I am an intellectual, I strive to value and vaildate different kinds of intelligence, from street-smarts to artistic skills to scholarly logic. I wish other folks who have had the privilege of a college education would learn that that's exactly what it was: a privilege that comes part-and-parcel with a responsibility to use it in a way that's not just self-congratulatory, but beneficial to the greater community--including those not lucky enough to get to college.

J. and I agreed that folks on the left need to reclaim the term "intellectual" in a way that isn't elitist or exclusionary, but in a way that values critical thinking as a cornerstone of a vibrant and inclusionary democracy.

And these days, with legacy-Yalie Bush Jr. as "President" and a media that panders to the market more than to the mind, we need to reclaim our smarts often and with pride.

Breathing and Dreaming

Been having a lot of vivid, crazy dreams lately, almost every night. And while at first it worried me that my dreams left me feeling less rested when I woke up in the morning than when I went to bed, I've realized that they have been trying to tell me some important things that I needed to be reminded of.

I dreamt last night that I was living in an artists' community--a multi-purpose, live-work-play space that included a black-box theater, communal kitchen, and big, drafty bathrooms. I was getting ready for my first-ever one-woman show, and it was opening night. But I didn't even have any lines written, didn't have any movement prepared, didn't have any music picked out. But I had my costumes. I had a stage crew. I had my sweetie helping me out with props and tech stuff.

I was freaking out because I realized that I had announced that I was doing my first-ever one-woman show, and people were coming to see it that very night, and I was totally unprepared. I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off for a while, worrying and stressing and wondering what the hell I was going to do.

And then I just stopped freaking out and started breathing and working. I turned on some music ("Like Cockatoos" by the Cure, a song I danced too way back in high school once) and started moving to it, letting the reverbed, echoing guitar riffs and rhythmic percussion guide me. I danced around the theater and went down into full splits (I can always do stuff in dreams that I can't really do in real life), and suddenly realized, "Hey, this is going to be okay."

I've been experiencing a low-grade identity crisis--caught somewhere between writer, dancer, activist, non-profit fundraiser, partner and daughter, with none of those things providing me with the heavy anchor of discipline that my organizational work used to provide on a day-to-day basis. I've wondered if I'm doing the right thing, if this whole writing thing is really where my destiny lies, or whether I'm just daydreaming and squandering my precious time on selfish and foolish pursuits while the real world's tumults and traumas taunt and haunt me, speak to that nagging voice inside me that says I should just get serious and do some real work.

Dreams provide me with a lot of insight. Even when they are violent, scary or anxiety-ridden, I learn something about myself from them that helps me in my waking life, in my relationships, in my work. This dream has reminded me that I am doing just fine, I just need to breathe, play some music, dance and keep on keepin' on.

Conscious Self, Unconscious Self

I took this personality test and here's what they told me.

Conscious self	Overall self

Take Free Enneagram Personality Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

Enneagram Test Results Type 1 Perfectionism |||||||||||||||||| 76% Type 2 Helpfulness |||||||||||||| 53% Type 3 Image Awareness |||||||||||||||||| 76% Type 4 Sensitivity |||||||||| 40% Type 5 Detachment |||||||||| 36% Type 6 Anxiety |||||||||||||||| 66% Type 7 Adventurousness |||||||||||| 46% Type 8 Aggressiveness |||||||||||||||| 70% Type 9 Calmness |||||||||||| 46% Your Conscious-Surface type is 1w2 Your Unconscious-Overall type is 1w9

Take Free Enneagram Personality Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

I also took their "Which Famous Leader Are You Most Like?" gag-test. And let's say that the results were, uh, a little unexpected: The famous leader I'm supposedly most like has been recently overthrown by a big U.S. invasion and is locked up in some prison somewhere. Go figure! ;-)

Blessings,
Rona

Open Your Eyes

Race has always been a central contradiction in American society, and "Colored: Black n' White" gives us crystal clear examples of how the construction of "Whiteness" and "Blackness" did not exclude Filipinos in the U.S. and back home. Having seen this collection of late 19th century political cartoons and magazine covers at Pusod back in the day, I am so glad that veteran activists and scholars Enrique de la Cruz, Jorge Emmanuel, Abe Ignacio and Helen Toribio have pulled together their new book based on the exhibit, The Forbidden Book: The Philippine-American War in Political Cartoons. Check out the reception and the exhibit this weekend at the SF Main Library.

COLORED:  Black n' White, The Philippine-American War in American Popular Media, 1896-1907

Saturday, August 14th / 2:00 - 3:00 p.m.
Opening Lecture with Exhibition Curators:  Main Library, Lower Level, Koret Auditorium, SF Main Library, 100 Larkin Street at Grove

Reception:  Following the program, Main Library, Sixth Floor, Skylight Gallery

The exhibit itself will be on display from August 14 through October 21, 2004 in the Skylight Gallery

Spirituality for Sale? Part I

I am writing this because I'm pissed about the fact that I wanted to attend this big yoga conference that's coming to San Francisco soon (I'll refrain from saying what group is organizing it). I've always wanted to invest a more intensive amount of my time and money (I'm a realist, I know these things cost money to organize) into my yoga study and practice, but when I went to the conference web site to get the info, I was shocked to find that the cheapest fee for only one day of the multi-day conference was $150! I had wanted to attend the whole conference in addition to the one-day intensive, which would put me out another $350--and those were the discounted fees!

I am at turns amused and outraged by the rampant commodification of spirituality that I witness all over the place these days. As a subscriber to both Yoga Journal and the New Age book club OneSpirit, I have received offers for products ranging from Thich Nhat Hanh stationery (I'm not kidding) to yoga kits for dummies (OK I'm stretching a bit here), and I've read about places like the Tao Bar in New York City or the Buddha Bar in Paris (surreal but real). Some folks, I'm sure, use images of the Buddha in a tongue-in-cheek fashion and I don't have a problem with that as long as that's clear--I think the Buddha himself would've reminded us not to take symbols and icons too seriously and to laugh at ourselves more often.

While I personally benefit from the shopping convenience that this commodification provides, and have found some true nuggets of insight and wisdom through both subscriptions, I can't help but be disturbed by this commodification trend. I'm not saying that we shouldn't have big yoga conferences or that spiritual healers and practitioners should not market or charge for their goods and services. That is the reality of living in our capitalist society--we have to sell ourselves, to an extent.

But some of this stuff is going way too far. I'm not just talking about the kitsch and tchotchkes inscribed with yin-yang symbols or Native American images, I'm talking about this spirituality-as-a-business craziness that perpetuates, without a smidgen of guilt or irony, exactly what dominant, corporate culture does: the exclusion of low-income and even many middle-class folks from being able to participate in the mainstream--in this case, all the (fairly expensive) soul-searching and kharma-cleaning going on. $500 to attend a yoga conference? Who can afford that?

Having grown up in the Roman Catholic Church (Mass at least every Sunday, Catholic school for 10 years) and currently working as a fundraiser for a living, I know that low- and middle-income people in the US account for the majority of the donations that are given in this country (see The Ten Most Important Things You Can Know About Fundraising' for some context). Most of these donations go to churches. Non-rich people can and do give money to things they care about.

At the same time, no one has to give money when they go to Mass (at least not anymore). It's no longer a prerequisite for confession or receiving the Holy Eucharist. Sure, you'll get a lot more attention from your pastor if you give large sums of money to your parish, but you'll get just as much attention if you show up to Mass every week and act like a good Christian. I won't get into the history of the Church as a haven for the rich (and the poor, at times), but I will acknowledge the Church's checkered past.

I find it ironic that one of today's more popoular spiritual fads is Buddhism, which emphasizes mindful consumption. If one reads the Yoga Sutras by Patanjali, there are also tenets that focus on the principle of non-attachment. So where do people get off charging so much money and making big bucks off others' spiritual practice? Where do the ethics come in? Where do we draw the line between ensuring our own physical security and profiting off of other people's spiritual needs? Why do we have celebrity gurus who live lives that ar anything but simple or austere? Check out Bikram Choudhury, who is trying to copyright his sequence of asana (yoga poses).

I know that in our consumerist, capitalist society, things cost money. But I also know that spiritual traditions have thrived and will continue to thrive without the gimmickry and niche-marketing of Madison Avenue advertising companies, or the inflated fees and prices that seem to be the norm today.

For example, the San Francisco Buddhist Center, where I’ve attended great classes on Buddhism and meditation, relies heavily on volunteer work and support--which in turn creates a friendly, accessible environment for those new to the tradition. I've never felt pressured to give more than I could to help pay for classes and keep the Center running. At the same time, the Friends of the Western Buddhist Order, of which the Center is a part, collectively runs its own business selling books on Buddhism--proof that business and spirituality can complement each other, as long as our priorities are straight: Spirit comes first, money second.

Part II coming soon.

Blessings,
Rona

Who Says There's No Such Thing as a Free Lunch?

Well, maybe not a free lunch, but there are tons of free events happening this weekend--testament to the fact that not everyone is a greedy capitalistic freak trying to get they money on. And although I'm sure there'll be more than enough corporate sponsorship, advertising and giveaways at all these events there's still lots of stuff to see and do that won't cost you a damn thing but some gas / BART / Muni money and good ol' fashioned legwork.

I already mentioned the San Jose Jazz Festival, a two-plus-day musical extravaganza taking place in downtown San Jo' (and yes, I hear Dionne Warwick singing in my head too) that's totally FREE--even free parking!

Then there's the two-day Aloha Festival in the Presidio in Frisco, with Polynesian music, dance, food and even an Outrigger canoe race! I'm heading out there tomorrow after shakin' my groove thang at the jazz festival all day today.

Finally on Sunday is the Bang the Drum 20th anniversary showcase, a free hip-hop concert at Kezar Pavilion featuring locals and legends (and legendary locals) like Chuck D, Davey D, Rza from Wu-Tang, Paris, Heiroglyphics, Vin Roc, Apollo (Pin@ys in da house!) and many others.

So who says nuthin's free?

Blessings, enjoy your weekend of free-dom,
Rona

No, not Memorex

Just finished watching the second episode of Ken Burns' "Jazz" documentary, which is mostly about Satchmo and The Duke. And although I really appreciate and am learning a lot from the series, I crave the nourishment and energy of witnessing and dancing to live jazz, which is what it's all about--the improvisation, the spontaneity, the fresh, happy in-the-moment vibe that only live performances by real musicians can give me.

My friend N.'s grandfather tells her that real music started to die--not with the birth of video and MTV, as you might suspect an elder might think--with the advent of the music recording industry. Although this statement shocked me when I heard it, I have to say that after watching the 2nd installment of "Jazz", I can see what he means. I mean, who goes to see live music anymore? And if people do go see live music, how many of the bands and musicians they are seeing really play music, instead of rapping over pre-recorded beats, or basically lip-syncing over canned music, or just going through the motions, singing and playing their songs exactly the way their 'Radio Edit' singles sound?

I'm not saying that electronically-generated music--house, techno, hip-hop beats, etc.--isnt' "real" (and if I did, Hen10 would give me a serious scolding), but I am saying that hearing live music played on tactile instruments is something that more people need to do. The pre-fab stuff just doesn't have the same kind of energy and impact.

One of the reasons I love to go salsa dancing is that at just about any decent salsa club in the Bay Area you will find a live band--some of whom are made up of incredible musicians who have clearly honed their craft for many years and understand the music on a deep level. This connection gets translated through the instruments, mics and amps to us dancers, who groove, shake, spin and smile because, well, the music makes us happy to be alive.

So it's great timing that the San Jose Jazz Festival is this weekend, featuring some seriously heavy hitters--from local salsa band Mazacote and Oakland native son Pete Escovedo to the legendary kunga master Ray Barretto. There will be seven, count 'em, seven stages of FREE music all day, and since it's South Bay you know the weather will be at least ten degrees warmer than in the northerly microclimates. I went to the festival last year, and it was a blast--who knew San Jose was so poppin'?

I can't wait to put my dancin' shoes on and groove on down to San Jo'. And for anyone who hasn't checked out a live (not pre-recorded!) music show in a while, this is the perfect opportunity to see how some real masters throw down. So if you see me shakin' my thang among the throngs of folks, gimme a holla and let me see you smile.

Blessings,
Rona

Heart of a Warrior

The genuine heart of sadness comes from feeling that your nonexistent heart is full. You would like to spill your heart's blood, give your heart to others. For the warrior, this experience of sad and tender heart is what gives birth to fearlessness. Conventionally, being fearless means that you are not afraid or that, if someone hits you, you will hit them back. However, we are not talking about that street-fighter level of fearlessness. Real fearlessness is the product of tenderness. It comes from letting the world tickle your heart, your raw and beautiful heart. You are willing to open up, without resistance or shyness, and face the world.--Chögyam Trungpa

It All Comes Together

I'm so psyched to have found Jean Vengua's blog on Fil-Am music and her article (in Our Own Voice) on Filipino-American musicians in the early 20th century. After writing about the various similarities I've observed between jazz and Kali in previous posts (see Part I and Part II), stumbling across Jean's research is like finding a cool, clear waterfall in the middle of a long hike.

She writes about the influence of Hawaiian slack-key guitar on American blues (which, in turn, influenced and shaped American jazz), for example, and about a touring band of Filipino-American musicians who entertained Midwestern audiences as part of the Redpath Chautauqua traveling tent circuit in the early 1900s. Musicians from other racial and ethnic groups also toured with the Chautauqua, and I bet they had some off-the-hook, cross-cultural jams after hours!

Fascinating stuff Jean's unearthed, folks. And proof that music is more universal and resistant to pigeon-holing and cultural 'ownership' than we can ever know.

Enjoy your Tuesday,
Rona

R&R

Just returned home from a four-day 'camp' near Clear Lake for women of color. Four days of not doing much of anything but eating delicious, healthy food, going fishing in Blue Lake (unfortunately we didn't catch anything), swimming in a refreshingly cool, non-chlorinated pool, getting brown under the hot Lake County sun, writing, napping, reading and chillin' with some wild women of color in our own private resort.

Sounds like heaven, doesn't it? Well, it wasn't exactly heaven but it was pretty close. I saw a deer when I took a hike down the entrance road to the resort, as well as a family of quail (I think that's what they were), some woodpeckers who woke me in the morning by tapping away on the wall outside my lodge room, and some huge bass jumping out of the water of Blue Lake to sun themselves.

I think everyone--and every stressed-out, overburdened woman of color in particular--should go on a retreat like this at least once a year. To relax, rejuvenate and recharge for the over-scheduled, jam-packed lives so many of us live. And maybe, just maybe, to help us realize that bringing some of those peaceful moments from nature to our everyday lives may be just what we need to be happy and content.

I've made a commitment to myself after this retreat to get away like this--away from my partner and my everyday City life and commitments and stresses--and just do whatever I want. It may sound indulgent, but I don't think it is. It's called bringing my life into balance.

Blessings,
Rona