happy inauguration day, everybody!

congratulations, america.

and to you, mr. bush, goodbye and good riddance.

don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out...

woke up to below zero temperatures today. our house is warm, and our car runs.
our neighborhood is not being bombed. we are very fortunate.

read this.

seven things you don't really need to know about me

i got tagged by robin at the other mother, who has asked me to reveal seven things about me that you really don't need to know. here they are, but i won't be tagging anyone else:

1. i secretly want to wear lipstick and heavy black eyeliner, but feel silly putting it on, even around the house.
2. i type very slowly. i only half-learned keyboarding skills. i know where to place my hands, but i always have to look.
   
3. i collect buttons-- the pin back kind, with political messages, images, or cute little sayings like: dip me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians. i’ve been collecting them since high school. my favorites are the little one-inch ones, and someday i will get myself a button maker, and start making my own. until then, julie at craftknife sells some nice ones on her etsy site.
4. my dream job is to be the owner of an architectural/building supply salvage business. i would have a huge barn/warehouse and a big flatbed truck. i’d go around to building sites, and building demolitions and collect materials that would otherwise be thrown away. anything from bricks and lumber, to cabinet pulls and door stops. back at the warehouse, everything would be carefully sorted and organized, so that people could come and shop for what they needed.
5. i like salt on my grapefruit.
6. i am monolingual, and hugely embarrassed about it. i studied french in college, but can’t really speak it. i grew up (in part) in southern california, and lived in texas for eight years, and have never learned to speak spanish. shameful.
7. i’m horrified, heartbroken and distraught about what isreal is doing to the people in the gaza strip. i feel angry, helpless and hopeless whenever i hear about it, see images of it, or think about it. i know, a bit heavy for a meme, but it's on my mind...
   

poverty (blog action day)

today is blog action day. the topic is poverty. i was thinking about how the presidential candidates never talk about it. throughout this whole economic crisis, the media, the candidates, the analysts and the pundits speak only of wall street and main street; the fat cats and the middle class. there are only two classes in america: the super rich, and working families. i've hardly heard any coverage of how the housing foreclosures are effecting people who rent. while i consider our little family to be quite privileged (in so many ways), we don't own a home, or a small business, we aren't shareholder's, CEOs or even investors (other than some tiny 401K-type accounts). we are not poor, and yet i rarely even hear the realities of our lives represented in the media.

i've always been amazed at how most of us believe we are middle class, even if we are working class, upper class, very wealthy, or poor. americans have a sketchy understanding of class distinctions. we are made to feel that we're all middle class, or that we live in a classless society.

and, let's face it, the poor, the growing numbers of people actually living in poverty in america, are powerless. if you don't have money to contribute to a campaign, if you are too busy finding tonight's dinner to find out when the last day to register to vote is, or, if you don't have an address to register from, or, if you lost your id, and can't find transportation to the DMV to get a new one, or, your birth certificate got lost in the shuffle the last time you were evicted from your apartment--- you don't count-- you do not have a voice. if poor people mattered, post-katrina, lower 9th ward, new orleans would be a thriving community on the mend right now.

that's why it is so heartening to learn about geoffrey canada, and the harlem children's zone. If you have not already heard about it, it is a comprehensive program designed to lift a generation, in one community, out of poverty. the focus is on the children, from birth THROUGH college. i recently heard a piece about it on NPR, and then i heard a story on this american life, and i was so moved by the insight, determination, and seriousness of this man's work. when i went looking around online, i saw that he'd appeared on oprah, and that barak obama even talked about him in a speech (and yes, he did use the word poverty). there's a new book out about him, and he's getting a lot of attention.



one of the things he said in (i think) the NPR interview, is that he himself rose from poverty to the middle class, and was living in the suburbs raising kids. when he observed the kinds of things that middle class people did for and with their kids, he realized that the most important things really had very little to do with money. things like reading to your children, creating a language rich environment and encouraging your children instead of tearing them down verbally, and expecting them to fail.



he believed that he could change the lives of children in poor communities, by nurturing and educating parents, and providing families with what they need to raise healthy, smart, successful, happy children. in a way it sounds like "duh!" but at the same time, we recognize how impossible that goal really sounds.

i encourage you to check out some of the media that is out there on canada and his work, including this book:


it is a fascinating story, and it may inspire me to get off my ass and actually do something, instead of cowering in despair and hopelessness, as i have done for so much of my life.

my hero

in case you didn't get a chance to see this on PBS friday, i've copied it for you here:

May 2, 2008

BILL MOYERS:Welcome to the Journal.

I once asked a reporter back from Vietnam, "Who's telling the truth over there?" "Everyone, he said. "Everyone sees what's happening through the lens of their own experience." That's how people see Jeremiah Wright. In my conversation with him on this broadcast a week ago and in his dramatic public appearances since, he revealed himself to be far more complex than the sound bites that propelled him onto the public stage. Over 2000 of you have written me about him, and your opinions vary widely. Some sting: "Jeremiah Wright is nothing more than a race-hustling, American hating radical," one viewer wrote. A "nut case," said another. Others were far more were sympathetic to him.

Many of you have asked for some rational explanation for Wright's transition from reasonable conversation to shocking anger at the National Press Club. A psychologist might pull back some of the layers and see this complicated man more clearly, but I'm not a psychologist. Many black preachers I've known — scholarly, smart, and gentle in person — uncorked fire and brimstone in the pulpit. Of course I've known many white preachers like that, too.

But where I grew up in the south, before the civil rights movement, the pulpit was a safe place for black men to express anger for which they would have been punished anywhere else; a safe place for the fierce thunder of dignity denied, justice delayed. I think I would have been angry if my ancestors had been transported thousands of miles in the hellish hole of a slave ship, then sold at auction, humiliated, whipped, and lynched. Or if my great-great grandfather had been but three-fifths of a person in a constitution that proclaimed, "We the people." Or if my own parents had been subjected to the racial vitriol of Jim Crow, Strom Thurmond, Bull Connor, and Jesse Helms. Even so, the anger of black preachers I've known and heard about and reported on was, for them, very personal and cathartic.

That's not how Jeremiah Wright came across in those sound bites or in his defiant performances this week. What white America is hearing in his most inflammatory words is an attack on the America they cherish and that many of their sons have died for in battle ? forgetting that black Americans have fought and bled beside them, and that Wright himself has a record of honored service in the Navy. Hardly anyone took the "chickens come home to roost" remark to convey the message that intervention in the political battles of other nations is sure to bring retaliation in some form, which is not to justify the particular savagery of 9/11 but to understand that actions have consequences. My friend Bernard Weisberger, the historian, says, yes, people are understandably seething with indignation over Wright's absurd charge that the United States deliberately brought an HIV epidemic into being. But it is a fact, he says, that within living memory the U.S. Public Health Service conducted a study that deliberately deceived black men with syphilis into believing that they were being treated, while actually letting them die for the sake of a scientific test. Does this excuse Wright's anger? His exaggerations or distortions? You'll have to decide or yourself. At least it helps me to understand the why of them.

But in this multimedia age the pulpit isn't only available on Sunday mornings. There's round the clock media — the beast whose hunger is never satisfied, especially for the fast food with emotional content. So the preacher starts with rational discussion and after much prodding throws more and more gasoline on the fire that will eventually consume everything it touches. He had help — people who for their own reasons set out to conflate the man in the pulpit who wasn't running for president with the man in the pew who was.

Behold the double standard: John McCain sought out the endorsement of John Hagee, the war-mongering Catholic-bashing Texas preacher who said the people of New Orleans got what they deserved for their sins. But no one suggests McCain shares Hagee's delusions, or thinks AIDS is God's punishment for homosexuality. Pat Robertson called for the assassination of a foreign head of state and asked God to remove Supreme Court justices, yet he remains a force in the Republican religious right. After 9/11 Jerry Falwell said the attack was God's judgment on America for having been driven out of our schools and the public square, but when McCain goes after the endorsement of the preacher he once condemned as an agent of intolerance, the press gives him a pass.

Jon Stewart recently played a tape from the Nixon White House in which Billy Graham talks in the oval office about how he has friends who are Jewish, but he knows in his heart that they are undermining America. This is crazy; this is wrong -- white preachers are given leeway in politics that others aren't.

Which means it is all about race, isn't it? Wright's offensive opinions and inflammatory appearances are judged differently. He doesn't fire a shot in anger, put a noose around anyone's neck, call for insurrection, or plant a bomb in a church with children in Sunday school. What he does is to speak his mind in a language and style that unsettle some people, and says some things so outlandish and ill-advised that he finally leaves Obama no choice but to end their friendship. We are often exposed us to the corroding acid of the politics of personal destruction, but I've never seen anything like this ? this wrenching break between pastor and parishioner before our very eyes. Both men no doubt will carry the grief to their graves. All the rest of us should hang our heads in shame for letting it come to this in America, where the gluttony of the non-stop media grinder consumes us all and prevents an honest conversation on race. It is the price we are paying for failing to heed the great historian Jacob Burckhardt, who said "beware the terrible simplifiers".

rant

we just finished watching the last of the four part series when the levees broke—a documentary by spike lee about hurricane katrina, the aftermath, and the affects on the community, the black community of new orleans, in particular.

even though i already knew a lot about what happened, and how horrible it was, and how fucked up the government response was, and still is—and even though i already knew that the crisis is far from over, that it has only just begun…i was still shocked by the film. each of the four sections seemed to highlight a further injustice. different from the last, not worse exactly, but no better.

i thought about what it would be like to live there when the mandatory evacuation orders came. would i get out? what if i didn’t? what would i have done? where would i have ended up? who would i have been with? in many of the shots of people making their way on foot, through flooded streets, or being rescued by boats or helicopters, or huddling together in the superdome, or waiting [and waiting and waiting…]to board a bus out of town—in many of those shots of people, children are present. you see mothers with babies, toddlers, older kids. i try to imagine myself in any less-than-ideal situation with cosmo, and i just crumple up and sob. caring for an infant or small child in the best of circumstances can be so incredibly challenging. any of us who have kids knows this. when you consider that these families, these young mothers with several children, or older couples with grandchildren, anyone with small children in their charge, dealing with appalling, dangerous, life threatening, hopeless and confusing situations…for days on end, weeks, months—trapped and at the mercy of incompetent, racist, stressed and stretched authorities---who have no ability to care for all of them, and no plan to even start—it is enough to make you go insane vicariously, or in sympathy.

then you realize that the trauma of the hurricane, the immediate disaster, of the storm, levees breaking, massive, unprecedented flooding, and the horrendous “survival” conditions of the so-called shelters…this short term trauma, which actually went on for weeks, even longer for some…you realize this was just the beginning. life after katrina for these people, not just the ones who were there when it happened, but even for those who left—life after katrina is, in many ways, worse than surviving it.

injustice piled upon injustice. insult to injury, salt rubbed into every open wound. motherfuckers not giving people any compensation, any way to rebuild some fragment of their lives after they paid every month their insurance premium outta their measly pay check just to try to protect what little they had…for 50 years, believing somebody would look out for them if something happened. believing people would do what they said they would do in exchange for your monthly payment for 50 years and nothing. “here. $600. that’s all you are entitled to.”

and what you hear about on the nightly news all around the country is the fraud from all those free loading welfare queens spending all their FEMA money on crack or whatever the fuck…middle class white america is so offended by fraud. by theft. by looting. but only when it’s done by poor desperate black folks. the good hands of allstate can fuck everybody inside and out while the good neighbors of state farm rob pillage and plunder the working poor who did what they thought was right all along only to be left. with nothing.
no thing.

tip of the iceberg folks. i could keep going. but i better not. you get the picture. i urge you to see the film. though it doesn’t do anyone any good…the least we can do is look. this is what carl says about the iraq war, and why he refuses to turn away, day after day, as it just gets worse and worse, more and more hopeless, more and more tragic and devastating for the people of iraq, and the families of all who are dying. seeing does nothing. but there is nothing that can be done. we cannot stop it. the least we can do is witness this senseless catastrophe. we owe it to our fellow human beings not to look away.

my g-g-g-generation

last night we attended a talk at rice university--it was a teach-in actually, about the new military commissions act of 2006 (the "torture bill"), and carl was one of the panelists. cosmo didn't really comprehend the gravity of the topic at hand, as he kept interjecting with shout-outs and guffaws while one of the panelists was listing now legal interrogation techniques such as waterboarding, induced hypothermia and prolonged sleep deprivation. as our friend iris would say, wagging her finger in disapproval, in-a-pro-priate. we had to step out of the room for most of the discussion.

it was a lot more fun for cosmo out in the gallery anyway. he got to climb on the swooping forms of rip-curl canyon and, best of all, he wandered around underneath the room-sized structure made of plywood and die-cut cardboard contours. it was a perfect environment for him. there was nothing he could damage, and nothing much that could hurt him either, so he got to crawl around freely, dipping under the low spots, giggling and sucking in his breath while simultaneously vocalizing at a high pitch (his newly discovered favorite sound to make). he wasn't disturbing anyone and he was having a ball(photo forthcoming).

we went back into the classroom and heard a few minutes of carl's talk. but once he heard his voice and saw him speaking, cosmo seemed to want to go down to the front to be with carl. he squirmed out of my arms and i let him crawl on the shallow steps leading down the side of the lecture hall. the little guy just couldn't contain his excitement though. his squeals of delight were too distracting, so we went back out--this time to the lobby for some dinner. he crabbed around a polished black bench, picking up camouflaged black turtle beans off the top, and occasionally a kernel of corn, or a bright green pea.

when the teach-in turned to Q&A, we ventured back in. i heard a student in a budweiser-logo-styled-padre-island t-shirt question the optimism of some of the "older" people in the room. he said that he found no comfort in the idea that the constitution would bounce back from this most recent threat, in about 15 years or so. he pointed out that he had come of age in this [post 9-11] climate of fear and illegal, unjust war. this current [insane] administration was all he had known. his comments got me thinking about the challenges his generation faces. i began to reminisce about my own college years, and the struggles we faced, the battles we fought.

i became highly politicized around my sophomore year as an undergrad in springfield missouri [sometimes referred to as the buckle of the bible belt]. it was the mid/late 1980s, the tail-end of the cold war era. we lived in fear of nuclear war, we were outraged about the arms race, and the military spending that was stripping social programs of funding. we tried to put pressure on the government to impose sanctions on the south african apartheid regime, we tried to draw attention to the US instigated contra war in nicaragua, and we were increasingly concerned about the environment-- raising awareness and implementing recyling programs on campus. i took classes on non-violence, and the geography of the homeless and volunteered at a battered women's shelter.

today on democracy now! there was a discussion about a new film set in apartheid south africa. the discussion made me remember a night right after i graduated from college. i was out at a club with my boyfriend in oakland california (i had just relocated to the bay area). a bunch of hippies and i were bouncing around on the dance floor to the cool rhythms of some reggae band. at the end of one of the songs were these words free. nelson. mandela. all the members of the band were singing these words, over and over...free. nelson. mandela. the audience joined in. soon the entire club was chanting free. nelson. mandela. it was a beautiful moment in and of itself, but it hit me in a particularly powerful way. everything i had been doing for the past two and a half years...all the organizing, meetings, mailings, flyers, fundraisers, film screenings, marches, peace festivals, state board meetings, green conferences, trainings, teach-ins, poetry readings, soup kitchens, anti-racism workshops...it all felt sort of futile...or not? it was uplifting to finally find myself in a room full of strangers who cared about the same sorts of things i had been working for, but somehow it was unsettling to know that so many people cared, and still it went on like this. change seemed impossible. i couldn't imagine a free south africa.

within a year, the apartheid regime collapsed, nelson mandela was free, and soon the berlin wall came down as well...the cold war was over too. these things happened, but it wasn't obvious to me that my work had anything whatsoever to do with those events. the times changed. the struggles of those days are not the same as the struggles of today. and yet, in some ways, they aren't terribly different, and in some parts of the world, not much has changed (i'm thinking of the israeli occupation of palestine for example). it's not as if my activism ended once i hit age 22. today's struggles are my struggles too. but the issues we face as we come of age seem somehow...formative.

before cosmo and i left sewall hall last night, we had watched some skaters doing stunts off the front steps, danced in front of the big mirror in the ladies' lounge, and cosmo had knocked his head repeatedly (but gently) against the glass wall of the gallery. he couldn't understand why he was unable to reach the brass strip which was RIGHT THERE, no matter how many times he tried, or how far along the wall he traveled! the stickers to prevent people from walking into the glass were way too high for a baby to see.

when the talk was over, we fetched carl and walked across the campus in the rain...
wondering about the dragons cosmo's generation will need to slay.




note:this photo has nothing to do with this post. sorry for any confusion.