CoRA, Edition Six

Please get in your submissions for the Carnival of Radical Action.

...for the sixth edition of the Carnival of Radical Action, Vox and I want you to explore making radical history. How do we create and participate in radical history? And how do we chronicle it?

Some food for thought:
• How do radical activists incorporate history into their activism?
• What are the processes involved in forming radical, history-shaping movements in our day and age (i.e. how do we initiate, shape, translate into action our responses to injustice and violence against and within our communities)?
• How do we learn from the past and incorporate radical themes in our work?

Deadline for submissions is Thursday, November 29.

Happy Birthday

... to me!

What I'm Thankful For...

At midnight, my best friend of 28 years called to tell me she was sending me a funny e-mail. "I'm bored," she said, tucked into the house she and her husband are buying while her children slept peacefully. "Mm-hmm," I agreed as I drove to my cousin Trinity's house to take her son some children's motrin. "Just read the e-mail and call me," she said.

Trinity was in the bed, her son and niece tucked in with her. We talked for a moment, then I left.

Upon returning home, I found that I had two friends waiting for me in the yard. New friends, which is amazing, because I don't have many friends and I don't make them easily. So, I climbed into the backseat, sat with them, and did absolutely nothing except run my mouth.

Around two a.m., I finally came in the house. I could smell the evidence of my mom's cooking--the ham was in the oven and the sweet potato pies that I'd poured into the crusts were cooling.

I looked in on my 16-year-old nephew, who was spending the night, climbed over my niece, who was on the floor, and fell into bed.

This morning, a text message from an Alaskan friend whom I haven't heard from in a while woke me. I went back to sleep in a good mood. An hour-and-a-half later, I called from my room into the living room (no, we don't have a big house; I'm just lazy) to tell my niece to put on a pot of water to boil for my one contribution--macaroni and cheese. She said, "Hold on, we're coming." What for, I wondered, but she's 18 and I no longer expect to understand her.

She came into my room with my seven-year-old nephew. They brought me breakfast in bed! They sang me a good morning song! They scrambled my eggs in butter the way I like! For today, at least, I wouldn't trade these kids for the world. My son missed out; like his mom, he was asleep.

My sister spent the night last night as well. I checked in on her. She's had a long week and she was tired. But she was cheerful and enjoying her breakfast. Then, I looked in on my dad. He was still bundled up in bed--strange for a typically early riser--but his breathing was regular and I could see his head poking out from the top of his covers.

From the kitchen came the scent of my mom's dressing and the sound of her soft voice as she talked to the children. She scolded my son about sleeping in a necklace. "Why, MawMaw?" he asked. "I'm scared you'll strangle yourself!" she said. The kids sat at the table eating as my mom did last minute stuff in the kitchen.

"Anyone heard from (my 17-year-old niece)?" She's due anyday now (tomorrow, preferably :-).

"Not yet," her sister answered. "Mama said she better hold that baby--no one's missing dinner today."

I sat down in my favorite chair, at the computer which is my lifeline :-), in our bright, busy kitchen, in our little warm house, with my big, loud family, and I felt good.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Happy Birthday

...to my BFF*, Kimberly.

Love and alcohol, girl.

*I'm hoping saying things like "BFF" will take the sting out of turning 33!!!

The Carnival of Radical Action, Sixth Edition

Inspired by the wonderful M...

“Until lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter.”

That is, according to my limited research, an African proverb that I first encountered at nubian’s site. But as a historian who minored in world history (with a focus on west central Africa) and specialized in the U.S. since 1945, I knew it to be true. Despite all that I learned in my African history courses, the Africans and their descendants whom I studied in my U.S. courses had no history, no background, no lives. They just appeared one day in Jamestown to serve English settlers. That was what the hunters’ history emphasized.

That is just one of the many reasons that for the sixth edition of the Carnival of Radical Action, Vox and I want you to explore making radical history. How do we create and participate in radical history? And how do we chronicle it? (This is a question that dominates my mind as I continually reflect on my long-term goals as a historian.)

Some food for thought:

• How do radical activists incorporate history into their activism?

• What are the processes involved in forming radical, history-shaping movements in our day and age (i.e. how do we initiate, shape, translate into action our responses to injustice and violence against and within our communities)?

• How do we learn from the past and incorporate radical themes in our work?

Vox and I are co-hosting the carnival here. You may submit posts here, use the Blog Carnival submission page, or contact Vox or me. The deadline for submissions is November 29, 2007 and the CoRA will be posted in early December.

And the Mystery Pregnancy Belongs to...

My sister, of course. We were hesitant to say anything because she's had three miscarriages, so she wanted to wait until she was into her second trimester.

Anyway, she's due to deliver April 16.

And my niece is due December 1st, though I'm secretly willing her to have the baby on November 23, my birthday (a.k.a November's Real National Holiday/Day of Thanksgiving).

I Know You Know Already

But I still have to say it.

I am writing-blocked.

Now, I know that happens every couple of months or so, so why do I feel the need to announce it?

Because shortly after I admit it, usually the words come.

So I'm superstitious.

I Love My Mom

She says the darnedest things.

Tonight at the store, she was replenishing the kids' school supplies. One of my nieces needed some pencils. I told her to get the pack of 24 wood pencils for $1. She turned up her nose and said, "I don't write with those pencils, Auntie." She prefers mechanical.

"Mmph," my mom said. "You must not plan to write at all, expecting MawMaw to spend three dollars on four or five pencils."

I heard that trademark "mmph" a little while ago as I sat scrambling to re-edit my application letter. "What is it, Mama?" I asked.

"Girl, I'm just looking at your daddy's dentures."

"What about them?"

"A thousand dollars worth of teeth and he won't even wear 'em. Mmph. I think they were more than a thousand dollars. It's a shame."

"That he won't wear them?"

"No, that he don't realize they'll make him look better."

Then she told me how she was about to go to bed and pray a special prayer of forgiveness. Some woman at her job (in a poultry processing plant) has been bugging her. I asked why she had to pray for forgiveness.

"Because today," she said, "I thought about putting that girl on the tray with them drumsticks."

Waiting...

It occurs to me that I am cataloguing, watching, and waiting for shit to explode in my little corner of the world.

Something is going on here in my home region, something created by the nature of race, gender, and class relations here. Everyone is whispering, but no one is talking.

To date:

Precious "Petey" Story, an 18-year old white woman, was murdered in August. The suspected murderers are young black men, one of whom Petey had previously dated.

Shortly thereafter, when the family of a local white girl decided that she was missing, they went to the home of her black ex-boyfriend and demanded entry. She was not there (was later found on her family's property), but that did not stop her parents from withdrawing her from the local, primarily black high school. They were careful to state that they were not racist, but did not believe in interracial dating.

Over the next couple of days, at least seven other white students withdrew (fewer than 30 were enrolled). When my offended best friend asked one of the white boys about it, he said that his sister confessed to being "afraid" to attend school with so many black boys now. "If one of them tries to date her and she refuses, she's scared of what he might do to her."

Really. He said that.

In a neighboring town, four black boys and one white girl checked out of school one day. They "went to one of the boys’ house, located close to the school, where sex occurred between one of the boys and the girl." They returned to after-school activities and during that time, the girl said she had been raped.

The 14-year-old girl was taken to a local hospital, treated for possible rape, and released to her parents.

A 16-year-old male [was charged] with forcible rape... and placed... in an undisclosed juvenile detention center. He was later released.

...The school district conducted a thorough investigation of the incident and determined that sex occurred, but there was no evidence of a rape. No staff members were notified that a rape had occurred during the school day.

The girl's parents have removed her from the parish school district.

When Ouachita Christian (you know what "Christian" typically means in the name of a southern school right? k, thx) played the majority black Madison High School in football in September, some parents reported hearing gunshots. Some time later, OCS played the (majority black) high school where my best friend is cheerleading advisor. She sent her girls over to introduce themselves, but the OCS cheerleaders were not allowed to come to their side. The gist of the OCS cheerleading advisor's explanation? While it was safe for the black cheerleaders to face their crowd, they couldn't trust the black crowd not to shoot at their cheerleaders.

When I visited the local high school recently, the staff was abuzz with the news that a white male student had brought a noose to school at another nearby high school. School officials have not let a word of that out, so I cannot verify that beyond what I heard that day.

Then, keep in mind, I live about 100 miles from Jena and about 45 miles from the University of Louisiana at Monroe, home of these students who mocked the circumstances surrounding the Jena Six cases by blackfacing themselves with mud.

Oh, and the local solution for addressing the violence and problems here? Take the black kids to Angola and "scare them straight":

Gary Clark, a childhood friend and successful businessman, and I were having conversations recently and the topic of jail came up. ...we talked about the number of black men incarcerated and the things that scared us straight.
“You remember when we were at Westside High* and prisoners were brought to the school and talked about prison life, ’’ said the retired Mobil Oil accountant and successful business owner. “...The things they said about prison life scared the (heck) out of me. I knew then, I was not going to do anything that would send me to jail.”
Tommy L. Carr... and members of the community have taken at risk juveniles -- mostly boys -- on prison visits. “And I have seen how these visits changed the lives of young people,” said Carr. A planned Oct. 23 trip to Angola – the Louisiana State Penitentiary - sponsored by District Attorney Bob Levy, will introduce both area boys and girls to prison life.
Angola... has a prison population of more than 5,000 of which 77 percent are black males.
Most prisoners are sentenced to natural life or exceedingly long sentences. It is estimated that 85 percent of the current population will die behind prison walls.
Carr wants to stop this madness. Both Levy and Carr should be commended for their intervention efforts to keep juveniles out of jail.
Even if it means scaring them straight.

That passage is so simultaneously loaded and clueless that I just can't break it all down right now.

Why am I troubled? I mean, for a long time white parents have been vocal about their desire to separate their kids from ours because our kids are violent, threatening, and dangerous, because a violent act committed by one black kid is reflective of the inherently criminal nature of all black kids. In a sense, this is nothing new. Part of me thinks maybe I've just been away for a while and am supersensitive to all the tensions simmering here.

But the other part of me thinks things can't continue to go on this way. This is a lot, in a small area, in a short time frame. I think people here have to begin to talk. Because I am hesitant and, yes, afraid, I decided to begin here.
_________________________________
*Westside High was the "black" school in the latter days of segregated schools in Union Parish.

You Ain't Never Seen...

A Batman and Robin this fierce and righteous! Behold the godbabies:

Oops!

Happy late birthday Trinity!!

You know I've always thought that Halloween birthday explained so much...

Be RED

From Document the Silence:

In a Litany of Survival, Audre Lorde writes, “When we are silent, we are still afraid. So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive.” These words shape our collective organizing to break the silence surrounding women of color’s stories of violence.

I want to help break that silence (my own story, posted sometime ago, is here). But I want to write about what happens when people do break the silence--not to stop the violence, but to perpetuate it.

I've written here about how the discourse surrounding well-known cases of violence against black women is so heartbreakingly, overwhelmingly negative in the attempt to lessen the impact (and even deny the fact) of that violence. And about how the language used about the so-called "immigrant problem" shapes opinion and policies that deny immigrant women their status as women, mothers, family and community members, human beings.

There is so much more to be said. But today I wanted to focus on the negative language, the language that hurts our spirits and sustains the violence, that I hear daily, intimately.

This is my Claudia and her girlfriend.

*****picture redacted*****

Now, while I love Claudia in her own right, one of the things for which I have so much respect for her is the fact that she is openly out and unapologetic in small town Louisiana. There are, of course, the hateful whispers and slurs. But what I hear most are the faux-sympathetic-tone comments, the "if-onlies"--she is smart, beautiful, determined, funny, if only she... lived her life according to someone else's expectations. And then there are the concerned members of our church, who aren't biased or hateful or judgmental or just damned nosey--they are just worried about her eternal soul. Nevermind if they make her life hell.

Her experiences are one of the reasons I wholeheartedly disbelieve the old "sticks and stones" line. Because these words do hurt; they are spoken to crush her spirit, to shame her, to make her be someone that she is not.

This is Felicia. Everyday in October that I passed the civic center in a nearby town, I had to see a memorial, a red silhouette, on the lawn for Felicia and too many other women and children killed by relatives.

Felicia was murdered a few years ago by her estranged husband as she was attempting to move on with her life. She was vibrant, lovely, and unapologetic about the way she lived her life--a source of much talk in a small town.

Felicia was married three times. My best friend, her goddaughter, teased her about the fact that she wore white each time. She told us, she was going to wear white each time--until she got it right.

She believed her third marriage was the right fit. It turned out not to be so. Felicia and her husband were separated and she had begun dating someone else.

Her husband shot her in the parking lot of a local Wal-Mart, went home and killed himself.

For a short while, there were sympathetic outpourings, respectful silences. And then, the breaking of the silence, again negative, began. For some people, Felicia had caused her own death.

Because she, as wife (and thus property), had been with another man.

Because she was not afraid to move on from situations that made her unhappy.

Because everyone knew, **wink, wink** her reputation.

And even some people who condemned him based it on the observation that, "he knew what he was getting."

And I hated those words, imbued as they were with the attempt to justify, rationalize, excuse what happened to her.

In fact knowing, feeling, experiencing the ugliness of words, as so many women have, is one reason I support documenting the silence. Because I want the silence broken. And I want it broken by words we have learned to use to support, build up, nurture, preserve, love each other.

Because I am worn out by the alternative.

Readers of the World...

...Delurk! I heard through the grapevine that today is De-Lurk day. Though I know I haven't kept up my end of the bargain so well in the past few weeks, if anyone is still out there, say hi!!!

P.S. Isn't lurk the most horrible sounding word ever?

Homecoming

My niece was one of the senior attendants on her homecoming court. After a week or so of running about frantically, her aunt was tres, tres glad the Saturday afterwards.

Anyway, here she is:

Posing outside the gym before the coronation.

With her escort.

During the homecoming parade the next day.

Game Night

Really, This Is Not Wholly a Post to Gain Your Sympathy

But **sigh** I moved back to Louisiana just when Bobby Jindal is about to become governor. And he's like, so sold on the whole American dream idea that he believes

"In America and here in Louisiana, the only barrier to success is your willingness to work hard and play by the rules."

Mm-hmm. That sparks a number of questions for our new governor: Who defines success? Are you really relying on the old "if you don't make it you're not working hard enough" trope? Who makes the rules? Are they the same for everyone? Is this statement really your take on all the problems Louisiana faces?

And then there are the other endearing facts about Jindal. He is apparently anti-hate-crime legislation, anti-gay rights, so willing to court fundamentalists that he ignores his biology degree, unwilling to vote to override the S-CHIP veto, and on and on.

Of course, I've only been back home a few months. But after reading:

Why Bobby Jindal Is Bad: The comprehensive post.

37 Reasons to Vote Against Bobby Jindal

Posts from the Anybody but Jindal blog

I'm sure this governorship is going to leave me with a bad taste. Oh, and just so you know more about my part of the state:

Jindal paid particular attention to north Louisiana, a conservative region that was widely viewed as critical to Blanco's victory four years ago. In a candidate forum in Shreveport earlier this month, Jindal said that he had visited the region 77 times since declaring his candidacy.

He visited my town this past summer. I snapped this pic from the car window, all the time thinking, "A Fresh Start for whom?!!":

Somebody come rescue this square peg!

The one good thing--in trying to read more about Jindal, I have come across some good Louisiana links.

H/T Your Right Hand Thief and Bobby Jindal Is Bad!

Stopping Violence Against Women of Color

From Document the Silence:

Recent events in the United States have moved us to action. Violence against women is sadly, not a new phenomenon in our country or in the world, however, in the last year women of color have experienced brutal forms of violence, torture, rape and injustice which have gone unnoticed, received little to no media coverage, or a limited community response. We are responding to:

The brutal and inhumane rape, torture, and kidnapping of Megan Williams in Logan, West Virginia who was held by six assailants for a month.

Rape survivors in the Dunbar Housing Projects in West Palm Beach, Florida one of whom was forced to perform sexual acts on her own child.

A 13 year old native American girl was beaten by two white women and has since been harassed by several men yelling “white power” outside of her home.

Seven black lesbian girls attempted to stop an attacker and were latter charged with aggravated assault and are facing up to 11 year prison sentences

In a Litany of Survival, Audre Lorde writes, “When we are silent, we are still afraid. So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive.” These words shape our collective organizing to break the silence surrounding women of color’s stories of violence. We are asking for community groups, grass-root organizations, college campus students and groups, communities of faith, online communities, and individuals to join us in speaking out against violence against women of color. If we speak, we cannot be invisible.

Join us and stand up to violence against women!

• Be bold, be brave, be red. Wear red on October 31, 2007. Take a picture or video of yourself and friends wearing red. Send it to: beboldbered@gmail.com. We’ll post it!
• Take Your Red to the Streets! Know of a location where violence occurred against a woman of color? Have a public location where you feel women of color are often ignored? Make violence against women of color visible by decorating the space in red. Be sure to send us pictures and or video of your display!
• Rally! Gather your friends, family, and community to rally. Check out the Document the Silence website for the litany we’re asking participants to read together on October 31st. Be sure to send us pictures and/or video of the event! You could even gather where you created a display!

More details here.

Reason Number 63589 This Blog Must Stay (Relatively) Pseudonymous

So that I can say things like this:

1. Right now, I am sleepy and my bra is so tight, it feels as if the strap is trying to fuse with my skin.

2. I am so looking forward to American Gangster. Denzel, Common, Idris Elba, and Chiwetel Ejiofor on one screen?

I'ma have to take a towel--but not for tears :-p

Because I like to Believe You're Invested in My Life

High School Homecoming

+

Mid Semester Exams

+

Community Wide Fall Carnival

+

University Homecoming

+

Attempting to keep the peace between your recently-moved-in 18-year-old niece and your nine-year-old son (who apparently live to aggravate the hell out of each other and, thus, out of you)

=

One busy elle.

I'll be back soon...

with pictures, even. ;-p

Mychal Bell Back in Jail

From the AP:

Mychal Bell, 17, was unexpectedly sent back to prison on Thursday after going to juvenile court in central Louisiana's LaSalle Parish for what he expected to be a routine hearing, Carol Powell Lexing, one of his attorneys said.

Instead, state District Judge J.P. Mauffrey Jr. decided Bell had violated probation and sentenced him to 18 months in jail on two counts of simple battery and two counts of criminal destruction of property, Lexing said.

Now why would you expect anything routine from the
Louisiana court system? Or maybe this is routine.

In discussing this with me, my father said, "Well, baby, they had to do something to show they could keep him in jail if they wanted." And he sounded so certain, like this is something he's just so used to.

H/T My dad and Trinity (who called me at 8:30 this morning pissed off!)

Crazy Mama

So I had one of those days in which I left home around 7 AM and just returned around 8:30 PM. I hadn't seen my child all day and I was a bit anxious to set eyes upon him.

Now, his bedtime is 8:30 in hopes that he's asleep by 9. Every other night, I have to stay on him about his bedtime (and staying in bed--he'll pop up with suddenly **urgent** questions).

I figured he was awake, so I knocked on the door, too tired to go back to the car for my keys. He opened it, said hi, then went back to bed.

My niece looked at me with an eyebrow raised. "He must be tired," she said. "Well, 8:30 is his bedtime," I told her, as if it was a normal occurrence that my child apparently had been in bed before bedtime.

Then, I sat down and started thinking.

This was a bit strange.

So, I go check on him. He's sleeping in my mom's room. Stranger still.

"Hey," I said, "What's up?"

"Nothing." He sounds pretty cheerful, so I press on.

"You could sleep in my room if you like," I offered.

A polite, silent decline.

"Well, okay." And I walked off.

And thought some more.

And went back.

"Did you have a good day?" I asked.

"Mm-hmm. My nanna (his godmother) says she's proud of my behavior."

"Well, I am, too." I looked at him for a moment. "Are you sick?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then you must be really tired."

"Uh-uh. I'm not tired. Do you need something?"

"Noooo..."

"Okay." As in, Goodnight, Mama and leave me the hell alone.

So I left him the hell alone and I haven't gone back.

Yet.

But why is it, when you get what you think you want, it seems really crazy?