Feminism, Freedom, poetry, Politics, Spain, Uncategorized, War, We The People

The Partisan

Her smile inspires her fellow partisans and her community

She throws caution to the wind

so as to watch their spirits soar

When Fascists questioned her commitment

she let her carbine counterclaim

She looks out over Barcelona

her city

From the top of the highest tower

survaying a land riven by

passions and politics

But beyond this tumultuous horizon

there is a glint of light

beginning to peak through

the gathered clouds

and so she smiles

and goes about her revolution

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anarchism, art, Love, Nations, Politics, Spain, Uncategorized

The Cream of Aragon

Her farmers hands deep in the earth

gravid with hale prosperity

coaxing forth a flourishing worth

to furnish her community

 

her humble sweat a palliative

to dulcify her burning brow

her labor is the love she lives

and to her comrades she’ll endow

 

the sun will set before she’s done

but with evening comes release

a night of humor, dance, and fun

with the cream of the Argonese

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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2016 Election, essay, Funny, Satire, Uncategorized

A Crude Speculative Freudian Sketch of Donald Trump

 

The following is

a thought experiment

derived from some musings on Twitter. Conclusions are my own & are in no way to be taken as anything more than speculation. The following should not be read by anyone (with apologies to Matt Stone & Trey Parker)

***

Mark my words, one reason Ivanka is getting a White House office is so she can more easily facilitate her affair with 

  1. Ivanka was the only child to stick by father after he allegedly raped his wife Ivana. I think they’ve been having incestuous affair for years

    I’m pretty convinced is having an affair with his daughter Ivanka, which probably started out, unfortunately, as abuse

    when she was a child, but Ivanka is now using the physical relationship w/ her father as way to leverage power for herself & her husband

    Trump relates to life libidinally; see the way he relates to & thinks of women & how he sees his business dealings as a practiced form of conquest/domination of others, witness also his obsession w/ phallic structures & possessing superficially attractive objects & people & his obsession with carrying on his (father’s) name

    Camille Paglia was derided for aptly analyzing libidanally & understanding, but not buying into, his raw psychosexual power

    Trump relates to himself as a product of his own will, he is constantly “building” himself into something more “valuable” & expanding his “brand”. His family is the ultimate product of his brand: he lives in a purely Freudian world where his sons are extensions of himself (his penis) & his daughter is the ultimate sex object (product)

    Like many narcissists he has an essentially self-loathing core & is therefore is often most truthful in his off the cuff moments in public & online, where he’s admitted, among other things, his sexual attraction to his daughter. He communicates his true thoughts through projection

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Feminism, Philosophy, Sexuality, Uncategorized

An Immodest Proposal

The main issue I have with the so called “modesty” movement, is that even when it is ostensibly about “women choosing to be modest” for their own reasons, there is an unspoken undercurrent of judgement and shaming. For what is one if one is not “modest”? One is immodest. And if someone is labeled or considered, even by default, immodest, shaming, violence, punishment, and ostracization are tacitly approved of against the person. It is a subtle way of upholding patriarchal cultural norms, and an insidious on at that, because it turns the “decision” to impose an arbitrary morality into one ostensibly made by the women herself. Even the word, modesty, and the accompanying concept and activities that expected in regards to it, are assumed to be set in stone, a certain set of inherent values. The assumption is made that modesty is inherently the act of covering oneself up, specifically the parts of the body that MEN have traditionally deemed there purview to either view, sexualize, control, or shame.

There is no such thing as “natural” modesty, or an inherent human modesty in regards to sartorial choices, it is all begging the question, with the answer being “there is something inherently shameful about the female form, something that one can “choose” to decide to cover up and hide in order to possess some sort of aura of inherent goodness or purity. It is reverse objectification, and sexual violence by stealth, making women into willing accomplices to the continuation of the idea that the female form is special in its potential for physical and moral corruption. Women are told that their “beauty” is better and more morally “celebrated” by “respecting” it with arbitrary, and male gaze focused, garment coverings/veils, as though beauty was something objectively enhanced or degraded by the use or non-use of a certain prescribed accoutrements.

Modesty, in and of itself, is assumed a priori to mean a form of veiling, modifying, distracting from the physical and the female, which underlines the assumption that there is something inherent to the female form that makes it “more beautiful”, more “worth protecting”, more “pure” than the male form. Hence there is no equal movement to compel men to “make the choice to be modest”, at least not with the same subtle shaming and prodding that women face. Modesty itself is a concept that must be discarded if we are to ever live in a truly equal society, at least the idea of modesty that assumes certain arbitrary parts of the human female form are to be hidden or de-emphasized.

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2016 Election, Uncategorized

Why Bernie Sanders Continues to Vex Me

clinton

Ahead of the Iowa Caucuses, the New Hampshire Primary, and the Illinois Primary in March, I am finally ready to make my endorsement for President of the United States. Before I say who I support, though, I feel it is important for people to understand why I came to the decision I did. I did not come to my position lightly. I have weighed the options, watched the debates, engaged with supporters on every side of the aisle and switched my opinion many times in my own mind. I am, first and foremost, a radical thinker. I do not believe in the office of the Presidency as it is currently understood or practiced.

I do not believe in our capitalist system or in our electoral system. We are not a democracy. We have never been a democracy. We should be, but we have never been one. We are a society steeped in racism, sexism, steeped in privilege, economic, social, class based and otherwise (oh so so much otherwise besides). Half of our existence we have been a slave based nation & the other half we have been, to varying degrees, an apartheid state. We must recognize this fact about ourselves if we ever hope to change.

There has been much talk about “transformational” Presidencies, turning points in American history which pivot on the leadership of one man (and it has been a man, always…always a man unfortunately). I am done with this paradigm. History has shown us that change does not, CANNOT in fact, come from above. Indeed, it is dangerous, anti-democratic, and destructive to ideals of human rights, decency, and radical justice to state otherwise. When we displace our radical nature, our radical thoughts and ideas and hopes, and put them onto the shoulders of one human who can “fix the system” or “lead a revolution” we are in fact betraying ourselves and our potential.

As Ta-Nehisi Coates, who I am beginning to see as the radical conscious of my American generation, said: “Radicals expand the political imagination and, hopefully, prevent incrementalism from becoming a virtue.” It is not imaginative to say “this fellow will fix it” or “this fellow will save us” or “this fellow will lead the revolution”. That is a closing of the radical mind, it is a distraction, a dangerous one, a fatal one, one that leads us down the road to politics as personality. We abdicate our responsibilities as human beings, as potential radicals who strive for change, when we put our collective energy and focus into a drive for power over a system instead of a striving to DESTROY the system that is destroying us.

Bernie Sanders said that the idea of reparations for the half a millennium of abuses the U.S. has committed against black people is “divisive” and could never pass through Congress. He has not said the same about his promises to the white middle and working classes regarding College, tax, and healthcare reform. And it is a largely white audience that these ideas are addressed to…black audiences have much more important things to worry about, much more pressing and immediate and life or death concerns. They don’t have the privilege to think saving the welfare state is the top priority for this nation. Our reforms have never reached ALL Americans, they have never benefited black and white equally because none of these reforms EVER addressed the central problem of this nation: black and white people are not, never HAVE BEEN treated equally. If we won’t even admit there is a problem, then no solution, no matter how high minded and liberal seeming, will address the root of our pain. It was when he said that one word, “divisive” that Sen. Sanders lost me.

Having said all that I will declare that I support former Senator and Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton for President. In the end, she knows the game. She knows the struggle of being someone who is constantly being underestimated and insulted for who she is. She is a woman in America, and the fact that she is so powerful and privileged by measures of wealth and class and she STILL is seen as an alien element in the system because of her gender, and yet STILL strives for power and influence in our system is something that I cannot help but respect and admire. She knows the ins and outs, she does not lie and pretend she is a radical. She is cynical, calculating, a shill, and has friends in high places…but that is what our system needs in a leader. We have yet to let a woman have the reigns of power over our system, as corrupted as it is, and we cannot claim to have tried everything within the confines of that system until we allow a representative of that half of humanity that has been perpetually disenfranchised to have a go at running it all.

Radical change cannot come from above, but stability and predictability can, and for us radicals a stable and predictable system, a bit of breathing space, is just what we need in the coming months and years in order for us to gather our strength for REAL change and a REAL program of protest and revolution. Sanders is a dead end, he is a salve for our wounds and a boost to our ego. He is not he change we are looking for, and if we stop looking with him, or if we seek change THROUGH him, we are betraying our potential. Let Clinton have the White House, let her have the power. We should not concern ourselves with such trivial things. I will vote for Clinton because I believe that with her in office it will free us from worrying about the mundane and profane issues of power politics and look to RADICAL solutions, not from above, but from the bottom up.

The problem, to paraphrase Shakespeare, is not in our system or in our leadership but IN OURSELVES and our inaction and cynicism. We don’t need Bernie Sanders. We don’t need the White House. We need our heads clear and our eyes looking forward to NEW and RADICAL solutions to our problems. I do not like Hillary Clinton personally, I do not like her connections, but I can say, deep down, that I can trust her with the White House and with that power. The Sanders moment has shown us that we thirst for real change. Let us not stop with Sanders, let us not waste our time with him. Let’s try for something more. We deserve more than Sanders. Our system, such as it is, deserves Hillary Clinton. She is made for it. Let her have a chance.

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essay, racism

3/4 White OR How I Learned to Stop Worrying And Hate My Privilege

Polished Shoes

Polished Shoes

My Grandmother, the one I actually adore and like, is from Ecuador originally. She is a gorgeous woman, the sort of woman who at 80 still has men flirt with her & try to get her attention. She enjoys it now, I think, but she did not enjoy that attention back when she was a recent immigrant to the United States from Quito, Ecuador, in the early 60s. She fled a terrible relationship and went to the United States so that her children could have a better future away from the alcoholic, abusive male chauvinists who ran her family and her country. She struggled being a young hispanic woman in the early 60’s era Chicago Suburbs. She had to leave most of her children, my aunts and uncles, behind out of necessity, leaving them back in the country she loved but also had to flee. She worked any job she could so she could save up enough money to bring her kids over. All the while she had to fight off, literally, the lecherous advances of everyone from her managers, her co-workers, her neighbors and even her landlord. A story she frequently told us as (probably far too young) children was about whenever the rent came due her fat ugly white landlord would come and try and break down her door so that he could rape her. She laughed about it as though if it were a plot from a favorite movie, but I am sure that laughter was covering up a lot of pain and rage. She never showed that side of herself to me or my siblings or cousins though: she was always a happy, smiling, generous, boisterous and proud Latino woman who loved her grandchildren and obviously loved the life she had created for herself and her family.

She married my Grandfather, the son of a German speaking Polish immigrant, and had two more children, my father and my (full) uncle (I consider all my Ecuadorian born relations fully my relatives as well, even though technically they are “half” uncles, aunts, and cousins). My Dad was a small fellow growing up, someone who today would be the sort of adorable mixed race child who would grace a Cheerio’s commercial or star in a PBS children’s shows, but back in late 60’s-early 70’s DuPage County, looking like he did didn’t do him any favors. My Grandmother would dress my dad in small business type suits and sent him off to school with a briefcase and polished shoes. My grandmother meant well, she really did, but a little brown boy in tiny business attire made a great target for the richer, bigger, and meaner white bullies who would torment him, beat him, and steal his money every day on his way to school. My dad laughs about it now, but I am sure that experience was something akin to a living Hell. As he grew older, he began to look less “brown” and he grew into himself more, becoming a high school wrestler, started to write, and generally began embracing his strengths. Today you would have a hard time guess he was Hispanic at all, except for his ease at attaining a tan, and I know that has probably helped him in the intense and superficial sales world he has made his living in throughout his life. He can now “pass” and is more or less fully embraced by the white society that used to shun, humiliate, and torture him for the audacity of his brownness. My dad is a very open-minded fellow, very kind and also probably the least prejudiced person I have ever met. He is patient and kind with everyone, though he has told me that some of his white co-workers over the years have tried to bring him into their little “white man” club, mistaking him for someone who wants to listen to their disgusting bigoted opinions about their black or Mexican co-workers. Appearing white and being male seems to be a green light for bigots to try and rope you into their foul prejudiced worldview.

When I was born I was clearly different. I didn’t really like being around people that much, outside of my family, and I did not like to go outside of my house or yard to do things with other kids. I was quiet in public and polite to point of being strange. I liked nothing more than being in my room, reading my books, playing with my sisters with their barbies and my action figures and G.I Joe’s, coming up with ever more elaborate stories that made no sense to anyone but me. It is clear now that I was an autistic child, and now I am an autistic adult (I was not diagnosed until I was 21…mainly because I was homeschooled but also because my mom is autistic as well and we really thought I just took after her!). At the same time, I am a white, cisgender male born into the middle of the middle class. Privilege was something I was born with and that benefits me in ways small and large that I will never completely understand. I look totally white. You would never guess I have a grandmother whose first language was Spanish and who looks like Inca royalty. With my red beard, dark blond hair, green eyes and printer paper pale skin you would guess I was full blooded Nordic (I am 1/8th Swedish by the way). The worst teasing I ever got was having some brats throw pebbles at me at the play ground one time because I was a “nerd” who actually liked playing with my sisters in public. Not really a story of hardship and adversity, was my childhood.

That being said, I grew up thinking that EVERYONE had a grandmother who was brown and spoke Spanish fluently. I thought EVERYONE had Uncles and Aunties with olive skin and thick black hair. It was quite a shock to me to realize that this was not at all the case, especially not for little boys and eventually young men who looked like me. As soon as I grew old enough to have a desire to go out and do somethings in the public world, I began to realize how much a privilege my looks really were. Nothing was ever really hard for me, not getting part time jobs (even though I was and still am a terrible employee) nor getting into the school I wanted to get into. I have never been pulled over, I have never been stopped by a cop, I have never been condescended to because of my appearance, I have never been profiled in a bookstore or a shopping mall because I look like “the sort” who would shoplift. In other words, I am as much a part of the status quo as the brick post office or the VFW building: I am “normal”, I am what an American is “supposed” to look like. Being Autistic it took me longer than would otherwise be the case to realize that I was in fact “normal”: In my own mind I am such a strange, esoteric, out of place person who does not understand people. The idea that I did NOT stand out was alien to me, but I started to realize this fact as I got out into the wider social universe. White people, men especially, would assume I was “one of them” and would crack their cruel jokes about “those people” and women. Not having any sort of social filter, my discomfort and displeasure would be apparent on my face and would usually be enough to drive these sorts of people away. I am the sort of person who will tell a stranger or someone I barely know that they are “wrong” to their face. This tends to upset, or at least unnerve, a lot of people, white men especially.

I always fit in better with people who did not look like me: the Pakistani-American kids I worked with at the college library embraced me because I didn’t crack cheap terrorist jokes or make distasteful comments about Muslim women. The foreign born and foreign exchange students liked me because I listened instead of talking, and I was genuinely interested in how they viewed the world (I love geography, and I love cultural history of all sorts). I made friend with women easily because I didn’t try to get in their pants and I didn’t condescend to them. I grew up with 3 strong and independent sisters and a very feminist mother, so even IF I had had a misogynist inclination, it would have been figuratively “beaten” out of me at a young age. As it was, I never saw women as the different species that most men seem to see them as. I think my autism has something to do with my lack of prejudice: I tend to see everyone as a sort of blank face that I slowly fill in as I get to know their patterns and their quirks.

That is not to say I am some sort of perfect liberal paragon. The insidious part of privilege is that you are not SUPPOSED to be aware of it when you have it, and combined with my autistic inability to read social situations well I have certainly made some faux pas and hurt feelings in ways I will never be aware of. That knowledge depresses me (I have clinical depression so this is not altogether strange for me) and it worries me constantly; it is one of the reasons I avoid contact with many people. I hate the idea that I could inadvertently hurt or marginalize another person. I hate my privilege even while I benefit from it every day. My lizard brain, the part that seeks to avoid stress and pain, of course enjoys the fact that I can go through life as an unmolested, benignly invisible person if I so choose, but the moral me, the human me, despises that privilege and wishes that it would be wiped from the face of the Earth forever.

Today I am a Anarcho-Socialist writer/artist/editor in the working class who is generally happy and comfortable who does everything he can to make sure he does not make others feel like my dad and my grandmother felt in their respective youths. I write and I create, but what I try to do most of all is to make sure that I leave people feeling better for having met me. There is no greater gift you can give to the world than to make sure that you do not make life more difficult for others. I suppose there is more I could do, more I could say, but I am still only 28 and I have a long way to go before I fully understand myself, my world, and the privilege I inherited, like a stolen heirloom, and still use, whether I like it or not.

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