Enter Oya, Exit Bush

Yesterday was one of the most depressing days of my year (so far), and that's saying a lot. There have been so many ups and downs for me emotionally during this election season. I told my co-workers yesterday--who commiserated with me as only those whom you've worked on elections with can do--that I felt as if I'd been beaten up, robbed, with no legal recourse. I never expected Kerry and the Dems to give up so damned easily. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised, and neither should all of you.

Although I felt lethargic at work all day, I knew something was brewing inside me--a sense of hopelessness and pain, yes, but also a deep anger that had been frustrated for too long. And mixed with the anger, an even deeper sadness, knowing that this country now has a population that is 40% evangelical Christian and that that vocal constituency has flexed its powerful muscles once more, and delivered a killer blow to the liberal and progressive elements of our society. Feeling that it doesn't matter what we do on the left, no matter how hard or long we work to build our base, grow our movement, figure out strategy and move everyone forward, these Church-going folk (and I don't say that in a sarcastic way at all, just a descriptive way) can blast us out of the water because, let's face it folks, they are more ruthless and probably more organized than us. And they believe that God is on their side.

I was born and raised in a fairly strict Catholic home. I went to Mass every Sunday, sometimes more during Holy Weeks. I went to Catholic school (including all-girls high school) for 11 years, and at one point in my life I wanted to be a nun. Spirituality and religion have always been an important part of my life, even during the few years that I considered myself an atheist of sorts. I can argue Bible verse or faith with any missionary that dares to knock on my door. Not one to be content with a purely Western (and patriarchal) religious tradition, I've also studied (and practiced aspects of) Santeria and Ifa (religions descended from the West African Yoruba peoples), Buddhism, yoga, Filipino indigeneous creation myths, European witchcraft and mysticism, Native American sacred traditions, the Tao and even a bit of Sufism. I believe that all Gods are one God, and that all faiths are different manifestations of an overarching Divinity that encompasses us all. I also believe that human beings can, have and will continue to twist belief in that Divine Source into something ugly, intolerant, inhumane and downright evil.

I've known a few born-again Christians in my time, and they are all decent, loving people who have an unshakeable faith in God and the Lord Jesus Christ. We have talked about our favorite Bible verses and what we liked about Jesus' teachings. We can sit at the same table and feel as if we are kindred spirits. And we are.

But it is in fundamentalist Chritians' intolerance of other belief systems, in other religions' right to exist and thrive, that I take issue. Partially because I am a secular liberationist, partially because I personally derive so many blessings and insight and power from my non-Christian practices. Last night provides a good case in point.

As I said, I came home sad, frustrated and angry. I picked a fight with H., who was also in no mood to bear the brunt of my anger. To make a long story short, we got into a huge shouting match, hurling hurtful words to each other like the thunder and lightning bolts that had torn the sky earlier in the day. And words weren't the only things thrown (but don't worry, we didn't hurt each other). At the end of our 10-minute fight, our apartment floor was littered with the contents of an overturned box (my bead collection, some art supplies and old Duran Duran collectibles), half a dozen pairs of shoes (all H.'s, of course), and some jackets that I pulled down from the coat rack in the hallway. It looked for a moment as if a small tornado had blown through our home.

H. and I settled down, the anger leaving us and the sadness that was underneath it all pouring out in sobs and apologies. I had let my anger get the best of me, yes, but I also knew that I needed to let it out, that all the politicking and mental masturbation during the day could not adequately express these powerful and deep-seated feelings. But throwing books and clothes onto the floor could, and did. I felt better afterwards, if not a little ashamed for causing such a scene.

In my study of Santeria, I have found a great affinity with the Orisha (force of nature/deity) Oya, who rules the tornado, the lightning bolt, revolutionary (rapid) change. The tornado of emotion that had passed through H. and I and our small apartment was clearly the expression of our Oya energy. I was moved, immediately after our argument, to build an altar to the fiery warrior-Orisha, who is the equal to her mate, the Orisha Chango, in battle. She is known for her volatility and bursts of anger--behaviors I have been known to exhibit myself.

I had been planning to build an altar to Oya for a long time, but kept putting it off because I didn't have time, was too busy, didn't feel like it, yadda yadda. But Oya was clearly more than ready to have her altar made. She demanded it of me. And so I set about, at 9pm on Wednesday night, the day after election day, creating what is now a beautiful altar to Oya next to my bookcase, to honor my revolutionary-warrior spirit, the volatile and powerful force of nature in me and in all of us that demands justice, that demands all that we can give to make this world a better place.

I called H. over to look at my altar after I finished it, and he gazed at the purple silken cloth covered with a medallion of St. Theresa (Oya's Catholic counterpart), a garnet and sterling silver necklace, various river rocks and other objects that reminded me of Oya's energy. He stared at the new altar with a look of wonder on his face, as if to say, 'You made this just now?' It was a moment of healing for both of us, and I feel that having this new sacred space in our home will help us heal whatever hurts remain within us after this crazy election season, and will give us the strength, courage and power we need to get through the next four years, and to make sure that in 2008 we elect a President who will truly serve the people and not just cater to the lowest-common-denominator fears of an ill-informed and increasingly intolerant populace.

In Hope and Struggle,
Rona

List: Is It Really Over?

Is Bush really our president again for the next four years?
Did Kerry really call to concede?
Why am I still having dreams about propositions and Schwarzeneggar and going to vote in my pajamas?
Will life ever be the same?
Why have so many states passed laws banning gay marriage?
Am I crazy?
Is it crazy to think that a country that calls itself the land of the free and the home of the brave should not tell people who they can and can't marry?
Is it crazy to want to live in a country that does not wage war on poor people in the name of some abstract, twisted notion of democracy?
Is it crazy to want the right to have an abortion in the 21st century?
Is it crazy to think that people of all religions and faiths can get along, and not pit themselves against each other in the name of a vengeful God and a fear of armageddon?
Am I really insane?
Should I move to Canada, or France, or Spain, or Cuba, or somewhere where people are intelligent enough to see what a disastrous choice Bush is for the White House and the world?
Should I stay?
Should I just put up with all this insanity?
What the hell is going on?
And what the hell are we supposed to do now?

More Shady Sh*t in Ohio

This just in via my email box from the League...

"Voting rights violations are already happening around the country - and more are on the way.

In the wee hours of last night, a federal appeals court cleared the way for political parties to challenge voters' eligibility at polling places throughout Ohio, ruling that their presence on Election Day was allowed under state law. 

This is the first time that political parties will be allowed to apportion partisan challengers by precinct instead of by polling site - thus increasing the number of challenges at Ohio polling places.

Sign up for text messaging to be alerted about voting rights violations, voter intimidation, and other sketchy bizness at the polls - plus November 3rd actions in case of election theft.

http://action.indyvoter.org/ctt.asp?u=3542661&l=66271"

Essentially what this means is that the Republicans can send their goons to polling places in Ohio to challenge anyone they suspect of not being a legitimate voter--i.e., anyone who is a Democrat or who they think will not vote their way. Legal voter intimidation, that's what this is folks. Believe it, it's happening.

This can't be a democracy if all people aren't represented, folks. Don't let this election be stolen.

Peace,
Rona

Movement, Movement Everywhere

This year's crazy-hyped election--and it's really not all hype, peoples, this is truly a high-stakes election, with a disastrous war, our economy, affordable healthcare, LGBT rights, access to legal abortion and many other issues up for grab both locally and nationally--has turned out thousands, if not tens or even hundreds of thousands, of people who have never done much more than shrug at the TV news into out-in-the-streets or in-front-of-the-computers activists. And even though a large number of these may be folks on the far right, overall I think it's a beautiful thing, because Movement, dear friends, is what it's all about.

I wrote a post a while back about how we don't live in a real democracy, and our historically low voting population is part of the reason I believe that's true. The other part of it is that folks living in the US--not just citizens/voters, either, but the general populace--don't participate in any form of civic action in general, and that civic action (whether it's voting or getting involved with your child's schooling or being a union member or whatever) is a crucial ingredient to a vibrant and healthy democracy. So is dissent, which is where the corporate-ruled media comes in, squashing any possibility for a mass media that encourages healthy debate that includes more than just the two parties.

Movement--getting folks out talking to their neighbors about how their city is run, getting high school students on the phones to get out the vote in poor communities, etc.--is essential. And I finally got my own butt moving these past two weekends helping to coordinate some get out the vote (GOTV) efforts with my organization, Californians for Justice.

H., V. and I (and about 10 other volunteers who came out at 10am on a Saturday morning to do their civic duty) had a grand old time, dropping literature for the 'Yes on Prop 72' and 'Yes on Prop. 66' campaigns in five precincts in Oakland's Fruitvale district. It's always good to get out into a different community, to talk to folks who are often deeply impacted by policies that they have no real say over, except perhaps through their vote. And it's always important to help dispel the myths about voting and the issues that TV commercials and confusing ballot language help create.

Being out 'in the field', trying to use my busted-up but earnest Spanish to conversate with the occasional talker (we weren't trying to talk to folks, just dropping literature, unless they had questions for us), showed me again how strong we could be on the left if we truly engaged all the dispossessed, marginalized and disenfranchised peeps out there whose values are in line with ours. They don't want to see their sons and daughters go to war against other poor people, they want affordable health care and less violence, they don't trust cops who don't come from their communities and they are tired of politicians lying to them. It was also great for me to be able to work on this election without having to posture as if I actually like John Kerry (although I am going to vote for him--whilst pinching my nose of course), but at the same time knowing that getting out voters for Props 66 and 72 would also get out the Kerry vote.

On the Western side of the bay, I'll be walking my precinct today for Norman Yee's school board bid. I met Norman salsa dancing and then through my work at the Youth Empowerment Center, and I'm glad to know he's got a good shot at winning. If you live in Frisco, also make sure to vote for stalwart progressives Mark Sanchez and Eric Mar for school board as well.

On a less positive note, however, I got this article in my email today from the League of Pissed Off Voters--which is putting Eminem's sick Mosh video into real-time action by turning out thousands of young voters to the polls tomorrow (St. Petersburg is in Florida, btw):

*********
DIRTY TRICKS LITTER PATH TO ELECTION (excerpt)

Elections supervisors are warning voters: Be alert for attempts at fraud and
intimidation.
by David Karp, Michael Sandler and Tamara Lush, St. Petersburg Times
Published October 29, 2004

When Dolores Cuellar of Orlando opened her door and saw a woman with a clipboard, she didn't hesitate to say which candidate she preferred.

"Not Bush," said Cuellar, 42. "The other one."

The woman told Cuellar she didn't need to bother going to the polls. She would mark Cuellar's vote on a piece of paper right there. And while she was at it, she also would record a vote for Cuellar's 18-year-old daughter.

Cuellar, who had never voted before, said she mistakenly thought she had just voted.

*********

It's hella deep, folks, and it's still not too late to get out there and do something to help build a true democracy in this country--my buddy Oscarchoy is in Ohio right now and offered to pay for my ticket out there but I decided to stay home and fight the good fight here. I may be a jaded activist, but I'm not without hope. Go to: League of Pissed Off Voters, Election Protection, Count Every Vote or Moveon.org.

In Peace and Justice--DON'T FORGET TO VOTE TOMORROW!
Rona

Quote for the Day (Lest We Forget)

As the election rapidly approaches, this quote (sent to me from a labor union colleague) from Nov. 3, 1988 is a chilling reminder of what we're up against. And it's kinda funny too...(what a liberal hate-speech monger I am!)

"And now the liberals want to stop President Reagan from selling chemical warfare agents and military equipment to Saddam Hussein, and why? Because Saddam 'allegedly' gassed a few Kurds in his own country. Mark my words. All of this talk of Saddam Hussein being a 'war criminal' or 'committing crimes against humanity' is the same old thing. LIBERAL HATE SPEECH! And speaking of poison gas . . .  I SAY WE ROUND UP ALL THE DRUG ADDICTS AND GAS THEM TOO!" --Rush Limbaugh

If Everyone Could Vote...

...and their votes were actually counted (what a concept, eh?) and fairly calculated, etc., John Kerry would almost surely be the next President of the United States. Check out this interesting web poll conducted by the Center for Third World Organizing, which trains organizers of color from all over the country. Which means that this vote is slightly skewed to the left but it's a historical fact that poor people, immigrants, people of color, incarcerated people, youth, etc. in this country have always voted more progressively than others.

Check it...and if you know folks who are denied the right to vote b/c they're not citizens, are youth, are in prison, blah blah but are still devastatingly affected by our country's policies on schools, prisons, the death penalty, immigration, welfare, etc. forward this to them so they can participate.

Peace in the East-
Rona

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Can't vote for the next U.S. President?  Make your voice heard here!  Join the worldwide community and cast a ballot today!
Vote today at www.ctwo.org/poll

We’re inviting all youth, immigrants, ex-felons, people living outside of the U.S., to vote for president at www.ctwo.org/poll.  Please help by participating in this vote and/ or passing it on to more people.

Click here to vote www.ctwo.org/poll


Worldwide Web Ballot, Statistics as of October 28, 2004, 2:00pm

Poll Question: Presidential Choice
 
Total
 
Total
Bush 4%
Kerry 96%


Voting Status
 
Under 18 years of age
Bush 7%
Kerry 92%
 
Not US Citizen
Bush 1%
Kerry 98%
 
Denied the right vote
Bush 0%
Kerry 100%
 
A person who lives in another country
Bush 6%
Kerry 93%
 
Age
 
Under 18
Bush 5%
Kerry 94%
 
19-29
Bush 5%
Kerry 94%
 
30-50
Bush 2%
Kerry 97%
 
Over 50
Bush 0%
Kerry 100%
 

Poll Question: What do you think is the most important issue that the next U.S. President should address?
 
War on Iraq / U.S. Aggression 43%
 
Attack on Immigrants 19%
 
Health Care 6%
 
Repealing corporate tax cut 3%
 
Jobs 8%
 
Education 14%
 
Voting rights 1%
 
Other 4%
 

List: A Good Wednesday in Frisco

I complain about living in Frisco a lot at times--about how far away I am from everything living out in the Richmond district, how frickin' cold it is, how unfriendly the people are here, how segregated and contradictory it is, blah blah. But there are days--and I have to admit they're getting more frequent--when living in this City is pretty damn fresh. Yesterday was one of them. Here are a few things that made my Wednesday in Frisco so cool:

8:30am: Gave some change to a man sitting on the sidewalk on Powell near Market. He smiled broadly at me, asked my name, and said, "You must be 'bout 22." I giggled and replied, "Add 10 years to that." His eyes widened and he grinned even more. We exchanged "God bless you"s and I walked on.

5:15pm: Pan dulce. Met up with V. at 24th and Mission, where I saw him emerging from a panaderia with a bag full of the sweet rolls. Mmmm.

Cafe La Boheme. Chilled for a minute at my favorite cafe, where you find veteranos from the Mission's heyday, boho emigres from the suburbs and radical activists all mixed together. Then V., H. and I headed out to...

6pm: A free Saul Williams in-store performance at Amoeba Records (yay fresh indie record stores! And they sell videos too!) on Haight. Saul wasn't just spittin' lyrics solo, he had a whole band behind him, promoting his new eponymous CD. It's crackin', folks, you gotta hear it to believe this is the same hip-hop head who starred in Slam and who wrote ...Said the Shotgun to the Head, et al. The man's got a punk/rock/drum'n'bass soul in him that's refreshing to witness in this age of stale, lifeless pop music and yawn-inducing poetry.

Bought my mom a copy of 'Fahrenheit 9/11' 'cuz my sis says mom's voting for--gasp--Bush! I gotta fly over to her house later today with the DVD in hand to try to persuade her to turn away from the dark side. The thought of someone that closely related to me voting for Bush gives me the willies .

7pm: Witnessed the gorgeous, slightly spooky lunar eclipse while standing on Haight near Stanyan, hearing the street punks howling and hooting at it a few blocks away. Somehow seeing Saul and the eclipse so close together made sense.

7:30pm: Had dinner at Los Jarritos with V., H., and D. Chile verde, house-made, warm corn tortilas, and a Negra Modela to wash it all down. Of course I made sure we sat in the back room, which I like to call the Frida Kahlo room, because of all the black-and-white pictures of her and Diego gracing the walls. And a surprise piece of yummy chocolate cake from the table of gay men celebrating a birthday next to us. When the birthday boy tried to blow out his trick candles (I hate those things) and failed (of course), he looked down at the cake and said, "Damn, Bush is gonna win!" Which of course prompted me to knock on wood furiously. I can't help it, 10+ years of Catholic school'll make ya superstitious about these things.

11:30pm: After much deliberating about a late-night dance/music destination on a particularly dead Wednesday club-night, we ended up at The Cafe, of all places, someplace I haven't been to in about 8 years. Walking up to the entrance, which was flanked by two Black women butches on security detail, I had flashbacks to being 19 and trying to get in without a fake ID with my friend Leatha.

The music was okay, some KMEL-ish hip-hop oddly mixed with old school grooves like Prince, Mary J. Blige and Arrested Development. The real treat was being in a mostly-colored queer club, watchin' the girls and boys get freaky and loose on the dance floor. Everyone looked so young, but that only made me happy instead of jealous. Ah, I thought, the youngstas are representin' and keepin' this shit alive. I was impressed that they still grooved to Arrested Development, because even to me that shit sounds like Mozart.

All in all, a great day in a, um, uh, great City? I still can't bring myself to say "I heart San Francisco" but I will say that I have my good days, and my not-so-good days. Yesterday was one of the best so far.

Blessings,
Rona

Remembrances of Helen

The memorial service for Helen Toribio last night was beautiful and moving, a fitting tribute to this amazing woman who touched so many people's lives so deeply. I myself did not know Helen very well, not nearly so well as many of the people that attended the service last night, but she did affect me deeply, and left a lasting impression on me that has made me think a lot about how I carry myself in the world, who I choose to build with, and what community really means.

I experienced a powerful sense, last night, of the community that Helen built in her lifetime. I saw people from the movement, from my days at Cal, from Filipino community work, that I hadn't seen in many days. And while I was sad at the reason we were coming together, I knew that Helen would want us to see this as a time to build with each other, to (gasp!) network even, to hold each other in community in order to, as the Reverend said last night, "give us a glimpse of heaven" on earth.

I saw old KDPers, folks from FilCRA and FAA, saw a couple I knew back at Cal who are now married, met A.'s baby for the first time, finally met Leny in person, connected with D. and J. and M. and too many other people whose first-name initials I won't bother you with.

Having my mom there was nice too---I'm actually related to Helen by marriage through my father. Indeed, Helen's greatest contribution to my life did not manifest in any time I spent with her, but in the time she spent with my mother. I met Helen several years ago when I was interning at FilCRA, but it wasn't until years later that I found out we were related. At that point she had just moved to Alameda, less than a block away from my mom's house! Helen and my mom became fast neighbor-friends (my mom is known in her neighborhood as the unofficial Mayor because she knows so many people), and my mom used to cut Helen's hair. After my mom and Helen started to hang out more, I noticed subtle changes in my mom's attitudes about my political and organizing work. She had always been a bit skeptical of it, sometimes downright hostile. My mom thought I was too smart and too educated to be making peanuts at some rinky-dink non-profit, and often told me to run for Senator or some other public office (yeah, right).

But somehow, through a combination of her brilliant wit, intelligence and down-home graciousness, Helen worked on my mom little by little, softening her up to my radical ideas and work, and coaxing my mom (perhaps without even realizing she was doing it) into being more accepting of my life's work, of the vocation that I chose to follow.

Now, when I take my mom to movement celebration dinners, she goes up to people and says, "Do you know my daughter, Rona?" She is so proud of me now, instead of just being uncomfortable and maybe a little embarassed by a scene she doesn't know or understand. And although I know that my mom's change of heart has come about partially because of my own increasing openness to her, I also know that without Helen's subtle but powerful charms, my mom would've been a much tougher nut to crack.

Thank you, Helen, and bless you.

Youngstas Rockin' the Vote (& the Boat)

Found some encouraging and exciting news in yesterday's Chronicle: as of this past Monday's voter registration deadline, the numbers of new voters being registered this year is breaking records in some counties, including San Mateo, Napa and Santa Clara. The really good news to my ears, however, is that more than 20% of these new voters are in the Generations X & Y bracket, 18 to 35 years old. Which means that folks like Rock the Vote and the League of Pissed Off Voters are doing a smash-up job getting young people to not only register to vote, more importantly, they are getting young people (you know, the supposedly apathetic, has-everything, disillusioned generation of youngstas) out there into the streets, on the doors, and in the clubs, talking to people about exercising their democratic right.

I have a special sense of pride in this effort because several of my comrades are working with the League and its allies, including Upski aka Billy Wimsatt, Mattie Weiss, and Cathy Rion, CFJ staffer-emeritus and one of my fellow Venceremos Brigadistas.

The really beautiful thing about these and other white folks getting out on the streets not just in Calfornia but in the battleground states to help get Bush out of office is that they are stepping way, way outside their comfort zones in many cases, not just working with young brown kids who are 'underprivileged' and 'at-risk' in the inner city, but working with working- and middle-class white folks in America's heartland who are the ones that can really make difference in this election, and on many issues in America. I'm not saying that people of color or people living in cities don't matter, but there has been so much progressive movement-building done only in those areas that these supposedly 'backwards' places like Ohio, Nevada, Arizona, Oklahoma, etc. are ignored by the left and then become breeding grounds for far-right Republicans. And that's a testament to our arrogance as much as to the right-wing's discipline and strategic vision.

And as a long-time youth advocate, I am just so happy that the youngstas in the generation behind me are comin' up and representin' strong. It does my heart good. And it gives me hope again in these last days of madness...12 more days to go, folks!

Blessings,
Rona

Blogging and Organizing Furiously

I can't help it...I can't wait for the Get Out the Vote (GOTV) weekend, I gotta do something to make sure these crazy right-wingers don't get into office again. For now, at 9:22am on Tuesday morning, all I can do is blog, but I'm 'bout to hit the streets soon, folks, it's my warrior-organizer blood calling.

In other Election 2004 grassroots organizing news, here's an email exchange between my friend and comrade Cathy, who's in Ohio right now working with the League of Pissed Off Voters, aka the League of Young Voters, another good group that is working hard to specifically turn out the 18-35 age bracket voters in key swing states (those are states that could swing either Democrat or Republican, aka the 'battleground' states, which indeed they are in these last days before Nov. 2). I thought it would be good to get another take on the voting rights violation stuff from someone who is very connected to it on the ground right now.

Blessings,
Rona

Hey folks--

For those of you that don’t know, I’m here in Columbus, OH working on turning out young progressive voters.

I second Rona’s email—this shit is real. Here in Ohio (said to be key to either candidate’s victory), there’s been lots of stuff already by the Republican African American secretary of state Blackwell that’s pretty skeezy—provisional ballots, swarms of registrations that may not make the rolls, etc.

 Today NPR  had a piece about pollchallengers from the parties—that the Reps are planning on challenging as many votes as possible (guess which polling places they’ll be at?)--thus making long lines, forcing people to present ID they really don’t need, making it a hassle to vote.  

Many are saying Ohio will be the Florida of 2004.  I hope not. I hope there’s NO Florida of 2004, but with all that I’ve seen and heard about here & nationally, plus just that the polls willb e swamped with larger than normal numbers, I’m convince that there’s going to be problems.

so: if you can do it, do it.  GO somewhere. Come to Columbus! I’d love to see you (though I’ll be crazed).  I’d also love to put you to work “trick or voting” to remind folks to get their butts out there—come on, GOTV in Halloween fun style!  And southwest flies to Columbus—so you can do it cheap.  (a bit closer in Arizona, there’s a Prop 187-like initiative on the ballot—let me know if you want to get hooked up with that campaign)

14 days left!
:) Cathy

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

hey cathy!
good to hear from you! i'm glad you had a minute to respond to my email. how are things out there? sound pretty hairy. i really want to get plugged into some election protection shit, but i'm not sure if i'll be able to afford it, i'm pretty broke right now. do you know what the league of young voters is doing in Cali, if anything?

anyway, take care and keep kickin' right-wing ass!

rona

We Don't Live in a Democracy, Folks

I find it slightly amusing but mostly disturbing how so many Democrats and John Kerry supporters--including Michael Moore and MoveOn, both of whom I usually like--are acting as if the Presidential election in 2000 was the first election that was riddled with fraud and abnormalities. Every election in the US is flawed and unrepresentative of most of the people that live in this so-called 'democratic' country, for several key reasons:

1) Most eligible voters don't vote, not because they don't know how to register or they are intimidated by the process, but because they don't think it will make a difference in their everyday lives. In the 2000 Presidential election, only 51% of the voting-age population actually voted, just slightly over half of all citizens 18 years old and older in this country. And Presidential elections usually have much higher turnout that other elections.

2 Many eligible voters don't even register because they have never been informed of what the voting process is, or don't receive materials in their native language, or are confused by the process, or some other logical, logistical reason. I met a single mother once when I was doorknocking against Proposition 209 that said she never voted because she didn't have time to go down to the polls on election day. She'd never been told she could register as an absentee voter and vote from the comfort of her own home.

3) Millions of people living in the US don't have the right to vote because they are:

-in prison
-legal residents but not citizens
-undocumented immigrants

How can we call ourselves a true 'democracy' when our representatives in Congress, in our state legislatures, and in the Oval Office are voted in by a relatively small percentage of the population? And let's not even get into the vast sums of money one needs in order to be a viable candidate for public office--which has a lot to do with our increasingly privatized airwaves and a lack of a real public media. I'd rather call the U.S. a 'democracy-in-progress', 'cuz we definitely don't have this voting thing down.

It's clear that the racist and classist voting rights violations in Florida in 2000--and the subsequent inaction on the part of most Democrats to right these wrongs--gave us our current "President", and therefore the Wars on Iraq and Afghanistan, a would-be constitutional amendment banning gay marriage, and a huge threat to a woman's right to choose abortion. But if we do everything we can to make sure that every vote counts in this election, I think we have a good chance to move this country just a little closer to being a real democracy, and to give regular folks some hope in our political process.

If you can, do more than vote or give money to John Kerry (I'm not even talking to you if you're giving money to Bush!). There are so many stories of voter intimidation, disenfranchisement of ex-felons and prisoners, and outright sloppy bureaucracy that it's a wonder any elections are valid in this country. If you can volunteer some time with or give money to groups like Election Protection or Count Every Vote 2004, please do so.

Making a democracy real and functioning is hard work and we all have to be part of making it happen.

Blessings,
Rona

The Clarity of Ideals

While I and many, many others continue to mourn for our comrade Helen as well as celebrate her brilliant life, I admit I am floundering a bit for some clarity. I have just read a post that I found via Leny Stroebel's blog denouncing Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez as a dictator, corrupt and brutal and violent. I have a hard time with this post because I can tell that this blogger is not a right-wing fascist, and because posts like his often leave me struggling with how to identify and find my place as an radical, earth-loving, feminist/womanist/leftist in this crazy world.

I, too, have doubts and criticism of Chavez' role in Venezuela. I will not, however, go so far as to call his administration a 'regime', as others have done. I admit freely that I have not traveled to Venezuela--although if time and money were not factors I would go--although I have spoken at length with people who have been there, other radical leftists who are not the screaming, self-righteous folks that the mainstream media usually depicts us as. Most of the people I work with in my social justice work are the most loving, self-critical, conscious and genuinely tolerant people I know. I trust these people with my life. And, trust me, there have been times when I needed someone to have my back and they were there.

Which is why I find some of the truly vehement attacks on Chavez to be so disturbing. Call me naive--and although I'm still a wet-behind-the-ears 32-year-old activist in some ways, I'm definitely no innocent and have seen my fair share of ugly leftist in-fighting--but I can't reconcile these seemingly credible accusations of Chavez with what I hear from people I trust and love who have seen, first-hand, the beautiful developments that have grown out of the Bolivarian revolution: the huge organic community garden in the middle of Caracas, the women hotel workers' cooperative that was able to take control of their own workplace, the everyday poor people who want to make a connection with their President because they honestly feel he will help them and not just the rich.

These chasms of division on the left truly sadden me at times. I am not saying that we can't be crtical of each other--of course, we need to have honest and critical debate and arguments if our movements are going to last and make real change; my friend M.'s post about his criticisms of Chavez is a perfect example of a well-reasoned yet impassioned critique that was truly helpful to me. Perhaps it is that I am feeling raw and vulnerable in the aftermath of Helen's passing, but there are times when these great divides make me want to weep.

Because if we on the left cannot get our shit together to engage with each other in a respectful, reasonable and strategic way, then it is hard for me to imagine how we can truly move forward with our important work to build a better world. I know it sounds idealistic, and it may be naive, but this forward movement, this unity is something I still long for. And I don't want to have to back a watered-down imperialist for President in order to feel it.

And as I sit here with my sadness, I long for the clarity and comfort of Helen's words and logic, based on many years of radical struggle and life experience. Perhaps it is a futile longing, but I cannot deny its pull on my psyche. And I cannot help but hope and work for a better tomorrow despite the desperation that I sometimes feel because of it.

And in the end I know, deep down inside, that that is all that matters--that I continue with the work, and that I continue questioning and hoping, struggling and building.

Blessings,
Rona

Rest in Peace, Rest in Power

Helen Toribio--revolutionary activist, tireless educator, warrior-spirit, beloved partner and friend--passed away last night after a two-year battle with cancer. She was always available to younger activists like myself, and had an amazingly strong spirit that inspired me deeply, especially during these last days when her body was fading. Helen's brilliant light has only grown brighter with her passing, and I send prayers and love with her as her soul journeys to a place of rest and beauty.

Rest in peace and power, ancestor Helen. While you will be dearly missed, we know your spirit will be with us always.

Blessings,
Rona

SF Hotel Strike More Than Meets the Eye

I haven't made it out to the picket lines in support of the San Francisco hotel workers and in protest of their lockout by the big hotel bosses--I'm planning to get out there tomorrow. This week was a big one for the union and the workers: this past Tuesday they staged a rally in Union Square to drum up more public support and visibility for the workers' cause, and progressive movement heavyweights Jesse Jackson and Danny Glover have represented on the mic and on the picket line. UNITE/HERE Local 2 are a powerful, ambitious union that has staged dramatic campaigns with lots of loud street action in the past--which is a good thing, since their capitalist counterparts, the San Francisco Multi-Employer Group, made up of the major hotels in the City, is super-organized and ruthless and more than willing to exploit workers. I thought this contract negotiation-cum-strike-cum-lockout was just more ambitious campaigns of this dynamic union.

But, no! There's much more going on behind the scenes, as laid out in the excellent analysis piece by my favorite movement journalist (and photo-journalist) David Bacon, which is in this week's Bay Guardian. Turns out the union has, on a national level, been carrying out an even more ambitious strategy to 'level the playing field' between themselves and the corporate hotel chains, who don't take much of a hit from these one-city strikes/lockouts because they have hotels all over the US and the rest of the world that continue to operate. In a nutshell, the SF campaign is just one piece of a larger plan to be able to build bargaining power in the big hotel markets of SF, Los Angeles, Washington, DC and other major US cities. Read David's article for more, it's brilliant stuff.

And who said the labor movement was boring? I'm having flashbacks to the UPS strike days myself...;-)

Makibaka Huwag Matakot-
Rona

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