Write Out Loud – Stories from the Frontline

March 27, 2009

Racist Love at the WAM Conference – a Rant by Joyce Angela Jellison and an April 2008 post from brownfemipower.

First, let me say why I love this post by brownfemipower- it says boldy and beautifully what I have been saying and not quite articulating the way I should- once I read it, I DID NOT FEEL ALONE. This post explains some of the reasons I will not be at the Women, Action and Media Conference presenting Run Go Tell Dis! Black women navigating the self-publishing industry.

I have been stewing for two weeks – mad as hell at how I have been treated and then I am searching blogs and I find this – I feel empowered with this connection.

Basically, I was told by the WAM conference committee to get someone from the commercial publishing industry to present with me – huh? I mean what the fuck? If I had that type of connect would I be self-publishing? I actually do have some commercial connects, but not for the genre in which I write. These lovely connects declined to co-present as they  did not want to undermine my message of self publishing as an empowerment tool – much respect for the consideration.

I did jump through a hoop like a dreadlocked poodle and get another sister – well known – Letta Neely to present with me -she is self-published, but the feminist elite at the Center for New Words love her – she is their magical negro and I mean that without offense to Letta – just to example how some quasi-progressives dont actually see you as equals but rather as their charges – like I dont need them to lift my ass from some plantation – I am already free so the good master treatment doesnt work for a womyn like me and it should not work for anyone.

Next thing I notice is they are ignoring me and referring to me as a moderator and Letta as the presenter – when I wrote the proposal and busted my ass trying to get a co-presenter. They invited me to lead a dicussion on  women of color and the obstacles to the commercial publishing – but you know what, it is bullshit like what they tried to pull at WAM that is an obstacle. Racist love is a bitch and I have no time for it.  It is basically the appearence of solidarity but it manages to silence you because you are manipulated into thinking certain parties see you as an equal when they are treating you like a special project.

Move the fuck out of my way and let me write – and if you dont publish me, fuck you. I can publish me and sell my books like pussy on a street corner. Feminism is about choice and what I pimp is purely my business…. So this feminist elite have inherited the movement from their grandmothers and mothers and like them – they exclude the brown, the black, and other groups that rival their definition of feminism.

Fuck silence and Fuck WAM – I wanted to go to the Black Women and Radical Tradition Conference at CUNY anyway ….

 

April 16, 2008 Some context.

I wrote what I wrote in response to all those feminists who, during the Full Frontal Feminism blow up, kept insisting over and over again that if “WOC” want book deals, they should “go get it them themselves.” That publishers weren’t skimming through the blogosphere looking for just anybody who’s a good writer. That you had to work for a book deal—you had to fight for it, show a little initiative, stop complaining, just do it. JUST. DO. IT. As if there were no such thing as racism—as if there was no such thing as racism that is alive and well and present in the most cellular of spaces. As if simply opening a proposal and viewing the odd name at the top of the proposal doesn’t influence how the person reading that name will understand the rest of the proposal. I wrote what I wrote to all those people, to all those feminists, who insist that short of refusing publication (and what good is that?) there is little to nothing feminists can do to stand in solidarity with other feminists who are not as privileged as they are. I wrote what I wrote to say that there either is a feminist movement or there isn’t—and if feminists can’t even be called on to point to the work that other feminists are doing—if simply pointing to a whole sphere of pro-immigration bloggers (because, to be clear, I stated pro-immigration bloggers and men and women bloggers of color NOT brownfemipower) who have been blogging incessantly about this is too much work for feminism—well, then there’s no fucking feminist movement. That if dabbling into and getting to know an actual community working in a certain way is too much work for feminism, then there is no fucking feminist movement. That is what I said. What I did NOT say: I never said that I own the idea that gendered violence is the way to understand immigration. I never said that I want credit for coming up with the idea that gendered violence is the way to understand immigration. I never said that I came up with the idea myself. I never said that it’s important to recognize that I had the idea first. I don’t give a shit who came up with the idea first—even if it WAS me. I don’t give a shit who thought of what first. I don’t fucking want credit for anything outside of existing. (For those who care, what I really said: There’s a lot of women of color (and men of color!) who have talked about immigration. There’s a lot of women of color and men of color who have examined how sexualized violence has been the foremost result of the “strengthening” of borders. There’s been a lot of us who have insisted for a long time now that immigration is a feminist issue, goddamn it, get your head out of your ass. I even wrote a whole speech about it (link not available–BUT for those who DID see the speech, do you happen to recall that long list of LINKED work at the beginning of the speech?). Which is why it was startling to read a recent article about how sexualized violence against immigrant women is directly linked to using dehumanizing terminology like “illegal alien” without one attribute to any blogger of color, male or female, in the entire essay. There is even an earnest declaration about how paperwork is the true problem of immigration (bureaucracy of paperwork anybody?) coupled with a declaration that immigration is a feminist issue. I do not accept that the author of this article made a mistake in not publishing any links to the work already being done by pro-immigration bloggers, nor do I accept that the author came up with these ideas all on her own.) I did not name X because although I was pissed off, I did not want a discussion about “what is stopping feminists from coming together as feminists” (aka movement making) to be turned into “bfp hates X and bfp is ugly and fat and bfp is jealous and bfp should shut up and get her own fucking book deal and bfp is trying to patent the fucking idea that hyper militarization of borders=sexualized violence against women.” This was NEVER ABOUT FUCKING BROWNFEMIPOWER except in the sense that I BELONG to immigrant communities and I BELONG to pro-immigration blogger community and I BELONG to the women of color community and I THOUGHT I belonged to a feminist community. This was about women of color constantly being written out of feminism, being written out of our own communities BY feminism—then being beaten up by feminists with JUST DO IT, JUST DO IT, JUST FUCKING DO IT YOU LAZY SPICS. (I want to pause here to note three things: 1. Do you realize how fucked up it is that for some reason it is “wrong” for a woman of color to want the same advantages that white women get for doing the same work? 2. Do you realize how much it sucks (worst thing possible) that I have written about media justice for two fucking years and there is STILL a whole group of assholes who claim to have been regular readers and can somehow manage to say with a straight face that I want to “own” ideas and/or steal ideas from others? and 3. Do you realize how much it sucks (worst thing possible) that even when I do my best to state my anger WITH THE FULL RECOGNITION that what I am saying may hurt somebody and thus ACTIVELY work to PROTECT that person while still expressing my anger–I am STILL berated for being angry, mean, judgemental, too harsh–and furthermore–I should EXPECT the attacks that I get? Do you recognize the problems with telling a woman of color that she can not even show anger at *anonymous*?) To move on–In my post I wrote the following analogy: It would be like Jung learning everything he learned from Frued, opening a school in which he teaches all of Frueds theories, and then refusing to attribute anything he teaches to Frued, refusing Frued a job even though Frued can not find a job any place else, denying all of Frued’s students entrance into his school–and then keeping all the millions of dollars he makes off of using Frued’s excellent ideas to himself. Now, people have chosen to focus on the end point_-”keeping all the millions of dollars he makes off of using Freud’s excellent ideas to himself.” People have chosen to say that THIS is what I must have been most concerned about. That I want the millions of dollars myself. That I am Freud and I own psychoanalysis. I can understand why people would think that—(no, wait a minute, I can’t, because anybody who is a regular fucking reader should know better, especially given my continuous “Move outside the master’s house” posts that I’ve done) but I will give that it is what we are trained to think of as the most important thing in this world. And I was not around to clarify what I meant. But, just as with black amazon and her fateful “fuck seal press” comment—it’s interesting that I wrote a whole post in which I clearly stated: 1. there are clear racialized reasons why women of color are never and will never be the sought after by big companies, named as the leader of feminist movements, asked for interviews etc 2. that white feminists bear a responsibility (that they are NOT accepting and in fact are actively rejecting) to negotiate power and create spaces (while working alongside or a step behind marginalized communities) in which power is de-centralized 3. As a result I do NOT consider myself to be a part of any fucking “feminist movement” because to me, feminism requires diversity (We have a responsibility (especially in the undergraduate years) to demonstrate to ALL students, no matter what their identity is, how to interact with the critical thinking of people who think differently than they do. To bring this a step further, however, feminist academics who are actively aware of how power plays out in very negative ways in the classroom, have a very specific responsibility to those students who have little to no power. The very basis of feminist scholarship/academic training is to dismantle and/or redistribute the power structure within a classroom and the academy. Women’s studies is nothing more than an articulation of this demand–women WILL be studied. Men will NOT be the focus of all academic work. Thus, women’s studies professors (and all other ethnic studies, disability studies etc depts) have built the commitment to diversity within a classroom into their very existence–so I feel no qualms at all about insisting that women’s studies professors (and instructors, lecturers, adjuncts etc) are *required* to show diversity within the classroom through the texts that they teach.) And even though I wrote this whole post about those three points–the only thing people heard was “She thinks she’s Freud and she wants money/power/recognition.” No, actually, I know I’m brownfemipower and I want to end violence against women. And I wanted to do that with all the women who keep insisting to me that we are all in this together and we have common problems that we have to work against and we’re all sisters, and there is such thing as a commonality of experience between us all—as I said in my original post—I thought feminism was important because it brought women together (I had thought at one time that feminism was about justice for women. I had thought it was about centering the needs of women, and creating action in the name of, by and for women. I had thought that feminism has its problems but it’s worth fighting for, worth sacrificing and sweating and crying and breaking down for.) But how can it have “brought us together” when my implicit goal in feminist centered media justice is to write erased communities into existence—and the result of the work of the ’sister’ down the street is the erasure of the same communities I’m working to write into existence? (And no, I do NOT accept that I or any other fucking Latina out there should just be “grateful” that our work is being talked about while we remain hidden in the shadows. Even now, as a person who explicitly rejects feminism, I KNOW that Latinas have the right to demand that the work we do not be hidden in some dark silent space that nobody talks about and everybody avoids even as everybody else eats all the fruit that we pick. Yes, even Latina writers have the right to fucking unionize and come into the light.) There is no “feminist movement” because the work being done is not just conflicting with the work of other “sisters”—it’s directly negating it. For me, this shit has all been about community. I did not expressly state this in my original post. I was angry enough at the time that I really didn’t flesh out my ideas fully. Having since had the time to think things through more carefully and surf around several of the blogs that are talking about this—part of what I was trying to say was that feminists have a choice in deciding what community they belong to. And they are implicitly choosing to stay away from and otherwise distance themselves from communities that make them uncomfortable or worried for any reason. This has consequences for the communities that they refuse to work with. Most importantly, it has consequences because WOMEN belong to those communities that they refuse to work with. A former commentor on my blog that I used to really respect (labyrus) made several comments over at Hugo’s about how I am really stealing all my ideas from the anarchists and the indy media makers out there. That he doesn’t think that “WOC” have the right to decide for the rest of the blogosphere what is “stealing” and what isn’t. These are not uncommon sentiments. I’ve seen the same sentiment coming from a lot of people I thought would at least ask me what I meant. The fallacy in Labyrus’ (and other people who support and agree with Labyrus) argument is the unstated idea that my connection to the indy media making community is in any way similar to X’s connection to pro-immigrant bloggers or women and men of color bloggers. I work with the Allied Media Conference—the largest gathering of indy media makers in the U.S. If Labyrus had paid any attention to my blogging, he would know that I actually do most of my organizing with the AMC these days not Incite!. As a result, I constantly linked to Indy Media makers throughout the world, have a working relationship with several indy media makers offline, always pushed work coming out of indy outlets about any major happening in protest/resistance making before going to mainstream sources, listed “alternative news sources” in my blogroll, promoted indy media events like the AMC before I was even a part of it, and have actively worked to intermingle my idea of “media justice” as I understand it (which was heavily informed by the theories of Andrea Smith—as I stated NUMEROUS times on my blog) with “media justice” as indy media makers understand it. An example—when I was blogging heavily about Oaxaca—I rarely, if ever, had extended commentary of my own about any of the events. I spent most of my time scouring indy media sources for links to articles and pictures. Narco News and El Enimigo Comun being the two biggest sources for information. And finally—when I came back from WAM—the first post I wrote ended with a grateful thank you to Indy Media folks that I organize the AMC with and who were instrumental in recruiting me to their ranks. Oh, and look it that—I even went over to the AMC website and wrote a post over there thanking them for creating the space that they created. https://alliedmediaconference.org/node/1268 I have chosen to be a part of the indy media community. I have chosen to say—I will settle my organizing roots in this community because for whatever problems it has, it is a community that I believe in and that I think has the answers. And because I am a part of the indy media community, I am aware of the way power works for and against indy media makers and I am constantly on the look out within my own media making for ways to negotiate the power that works against and attacks indy media makers. By way of example, I spent a lot of time blogging about how indy media makers in Mexico were and continue to be violently attacked by the Mexican government. A large part of the reason I refuse “media reform” is because I see the extreme violence indy media makers are dealing with simply because media reformists refuse to make mainstream media accountable to the people rather than the governments and corporations they serve. And while I personally refuse media reform—I also don’t necessarily think it is all or nothing—I have given props to “indy media makers” working within mainstream news (such as Seymour Hersch and others). I see what they are doing and think they aren’t actively working against indy media makers, even if they are “mainstream’. To me–that’s what a “movement” is–it’s agreeing on a common goal and working together towards that goal. It’s agreeing that if you choose NOT to be a part of common goal making that you do not actively work *against* that goal. The thing is—I thought that those who were a part of a “feminist community” were held to the same sort of standards. That when a woman of color says that she will not be published thus the white women who are published need to spend more time than they feel comfortable talking about the needs of women of color—THEY WOULD DO IT. That they would say “It’s the least I can do” or “What else can I do” rather than JUST DO IT, JUST DO IT. Because we are all in a community together and we all are working to create something that challenges and dismantles gendered violence and inequality, right? And if it takes writing a book that does not assume all women are staying away from feminism because they are white and privileged and just don’t get it—well, ending gendered violence and inequality is worth it, right? Working together towards a common goal, right? It just took reading Hugo’s response for me to realize that I was fucked up wrong. That feminism’s goals and my goals are completly and totally opposite of each other. That in feminism’s eyes “dismantling” gendered violence= “shifting” gendered violence. How else can you explain, “You better prove it” “What am I supposed to do, silence myself?””She thinks she’s Freud” and “She just wants the million dollars without actually working for it.” JUST DO IT YOU STUPID SPIC. And when “it” (as in, the ‘movement’) all boils down to Just Do It—what other choice do women of color have but to say, fuck it—this is no longer about a “movement” but about making sure that you don’t ever fucking steal my shit ever again? I support and honor the several women of color who’ve posted that the answer is not to leave, but to fight harder, with lawyers if necessary. I support and honor those women because they are fighting, they refuse to back down, they are organizing, they are sharing their strategies of not backing down with other black women and women of color alike. But for me—a person who believes in media justice–the point was never to say I own this fucking material—but to say we must build a movement because the only way I and my community will ever have peace is if there is a movement. Those women of color who say they will not back down because they own the material—they are building a movement, just in a way that is different than I what I am doing. It may be different, but it’s not directly conflicting with what I am doing. And if they choose to call themselves feminists–well, I have a mouth and eyes that I can use to find out what they mean. “Feminists,” on the other hand, are not movement building, they are actively destroying women and blaming those women for the destruction. They are saying the point of feminism is “equality with men” without even thinking to acknowledge that “equality with women” is just as admirable of a goal and maybe even possibly the first step to achieving the goal of equality with men. They are saying, Just do it, just do it, JUST FUCKING DO IT. And so I withdraw myself from this “movement”. And I reject and rebel at the label “feminist.” I reject and rebel at the label “feminist” because I reject and rebel against silence and erasure. I purposefully and deliberately burn all bridges to all people/movements with the purposeful and deliberate awareness that I will build bridges again, but ONLY WITH a person/movement and only if those bridges require no body parts to build. And I do so without rejecting the absolute necessity of a gendered analysis of media justice, violence against and within communities of color, etc. Because if you think I haven’t noticed the gendered dynamics written all over this fucking blow up, you’d be 100% wrong. One last note—to all those who are concerned that I’m just “giving up.” I appreciate the sentiment. It’s one that I struggle with. I don’t want to just give up, I don’t want to “let them win.” But at the same time, my goal has never been to “not let them win.” My goal has been to end violence against women of color. And while I think that erasing an entire community through words is violence—at the same time, I personally don’t think that making a battle about me and X and winning is the route I want to take to achieve my goal. I want to do something different—but I need time to think about what it is that I want to do. And I want to think about it from a position of health and strength—but let’s be real. Sifting through comment after comment and post after post about how I obviously think I’m Sigmund fucking Frued does not promote health and strength and clarity. It does nothing for me but waste time and energy and personal resources. Furthermore, I can not relax and contemplate while I worry about how my own words are being used to destroy me in the blogosphere (yes, I noticed all the little rodents sniffing around my archives looking for evidence that I am a plagiarizing bitch that is just out to get white women). Trust me when I say that I have treated my archives gently and with the respect they deserve. I realize now that “feminism” and I stand in direct opposition to each other—that the feminists who aren’t actively working against me and my community are, like Seymour Hersch, few and far between. This has caused a radical shifting in my thinking. A shifting that I have no desire to work through online—but that I need to think through before I can act. I am not giving up. I am just thinking. And resting. And reading my beloved books and soaking my tired dogs. Cuz giiirls, my dogs are TIRED. As I said in my last post—I will find you, and you will find me. there is life here. anyone reading this is breathing, maybe hurting, but breathing for sure. and if there is any light to come, it will shine from the eyes of those who look for peace and justice after the rubble and rhetoric are cleared and the phoenix has risen. affirm life. affirm life. we got to carry each other now. you are either with life, or against it. affirm life. Love~~xo ETA: I just want to say that it’s been made clear to me that in using the term “woman of color” or “women of color” to describe my experiences I am silencing and talking over other women’s experiences, namly other women of color who have no problems with the feminist movement as it stands. I do NOT take back what I said about the feminist movement explicitly rejecting an anti-racist agenda. But I do profoundly regret that in saying “woman of color” and/or “women of color” I contributed to the silencing of women of color within mainstream feminist movements and the work that they are doing within that movement. I am very sorry to those women who have expressed this idea and please know that I am also thinking about your words as I consider what my future holds.

March 25, 2009

My Revolutionary Pussy – by Joyce Angela Jellison

Filed under: BrokenBeautiful Randomness — writeoutloudboston @ 1:16 am
Tags: , , , , ,

There was a season when I lost my mind. A wintering of my logical self  and the hibernation of reason.

Purgatory – death – hibernation – there is no distinction in my mind. Roaming without purpose is insanity snarling at comfort. My insanity came unexpectedly and as is often the case, without invitation but perhaps some provocation.

Insanity is death or it is the courting of death without the courage to marry it. I am not afraid of commitment, but Iam afraid of death – the silence of the whole affair – the void – the absence of light and the prospect of an eternity in a questionable void  are infinitly terrifying.

I went insane over a man or should I say under a man – the weight of his ficklness and indifference. This is the mania of womyn like me – those who write and feel more than they should.  I went crazy for  a phone call never received, a misunderstanding, a miscarriage I was planning to abort – but once choice was taken, I mourned the lost child as I mourned the reluctant/resistant father.

I lay on the floor and just craved my body to sink into itself, for my breasts to become flat and empty – for my helpless vagina to curl inward and render me, essentially – sexless. I lay on the floor and sometimes I would fall into a sleep that harbored distant realities – I dreamed he called, I dreamed I was whole again, I dreamed, I dreamed and then

I awoke.

To night – chilly and foreboding – it echoed dully and constantly of what I did not have – him. I would rise in darkness to dress, just enough to cover myself from the prodding eyes of strangers seeking to imprint on their fleshy greedy corneas my insanity as if knowing would be an amulet for them – but I dared not share myself like an antidote to heartbreak – let them find it on their own I would think and then

I would hurry to my car and drive to Cambridge so I could wait for him to open the door and let me in – grief would be my skeleton key- but he had indifference and this was no match for my rageful mourning. Sometimes, I would not leave my car – the warmth of it protecting me from stepping into his unfamiliar coldness.

I played Natalie Merchant endlessly – she and I knew love, we knew seperation – in her voice, there was survival. But survival was not a goal -it was a happenstance. If by chance I survived this – then it would only be by chance, it would not be my intent. I intended to die at his doorstep – force him to step over my carcass – he would be a murderer.

I did not know him any longer.

This unknowing was the pain creeping along my spine and forcing me to lay down whenever the weight of air, sky and earth beneath my feet became too much for me to contend with – too much for me to navigate.  I wondered at the brightness of the sky – the fullness of the moon – it all seemed to be too much, the air warming and the ice melting, transforming Boston from brown to green – too lush for heartbreak to survive or just lush enough for pain to be more acute.

Rosalia De Castro wrote of dying while things bloom. Death in spring is cruel.

I  never knew him – this is what all spurned lovers lament. I did know someone else and in all honestly, this is who I sought – this is who I left my trail of tears for – I left my tears for the man I had made love to without question the first evening I met him – the man I had drunkenly declared my love for the first night. This other, the one whose indifference made me insane – this was not the man I loved and so I continued to climb into my car and search for the original man.

My neighbors gossiped about me. They laughed at my appearance, my screaming – my pain. A year later one of them would be dead from lung cancer having never smoked a cigarette – had she in her laughter, inhaled the cancer of my heartbreak ? one can never tell – it is tragic, but possible. All things are possible – dont flowers blossom between the toes of the dead? Doesnt grass grow green over graves? To inhale my grieving and have it manifest itself as cancer is not odd – it is quite simply, the order of things in the midst of chaos.

I began to ring doorbells. Just random doorbells – I wanted strangers to let me in. Take me in and let me crawl beneath their beds and shed my ache – one woman, let me in – I told her I had locked myself out and I needed to use her phone – instead I called him, it was a number he would not identify but he did not answer and the woman – scared, enraged, insisted – demanded and threatened that I get my crazy ass out of her home. I left in tears – there are no life boats for the heartbroken – they must float amongst us and we ignore the stink of their rot even as we taunt them.

I gave up on waiting. The phone calls I made to him were never returned. The letters never answered. I stopped pleading one day and the next day was easier because I no longer had hope and my grief became a paperweight I occassionally picked up – fingered lightly and set back down.

I still listened to Natalie Merchant – but her voice changed, leading me from him to her – to dark basements crowded with poets and the clinking of glasses filled with bad wine. Natalie and I stood over our own cradles and rocked one another to sleep – me comfortable in offering my heart to noone and she never knowing me – but knowing there were someones like me being led by her voice to places they had never traveled or considered.

The nights became warm – not because I was healing but because summer came so quickly overtaking spring forcibly, almost abusively. I would stand on my balcolny and wish for him as one would wish upon a star. I loved him but my heartbreak was becomming a callus that was easy to ignore. I made love with many others or rather I fucked them recklessly and I never thought of him as I did.

Fucking made heartbreak a small thing. No one spent the night – that was and is still too much of an intimacy -to share a bed through the evening.  Nights were for me to curl my body around delicious voids and fall into dreams populated with poetry that I would document in the morning. Nights were not for anonymous dicks to lounge in – expecting my pussy to greet them like carnal coffee – I fucked them and prodded them like baby chicks toward the door. Go home to the life I am not interested in, I thought. Perhaps there was a mournful corpse awaiting them.

Fucking became empowerment and I was a fucking revolutuionary. My vagina was and still is a warrior and I was glad it did not curl inward during my grieiving or that my breasts had not become flat and empty. They wanted to be touched and my vagina wanted to called a pussy and I wanted to forget that I had made the mistake of thinking of my womanhood was existant because of a phone call, a smile – a misleading commitment.

My pussy fought back – she and I fucked and forgot names, places and circumstances but never condoms. We cancelled a trip to New York to see my best friend just to fuck some poor fuck who was more impressed than I with his abilities.

Heartbreak was there – but she was no match for the revolution and she lay low. Rearing her sheepish head only to be ignored or soothed with me crying in the shower – my tears inextinguishable from the shower water and this way there was no longer a trail for him to follow. I was lost to him and he to me.

Eventually, he called. Late one evening or rather early one morning. It was actually a text message.

“Hi” he wrote

I read it ten times – almost regretted my revolution – thought the better of it , having made an agreement with heartbreak to allow her moments of peeking in and quickly dissappearing. He was no longer he – but rather him, a derivative of heartbreak, grief, and me wishing away my revolution.

That just would not do.

I deleted his message and me and my revolutionary pussy settled into a reckless night of subversive fucking. Viva La Revolution!

Joyce Angela Jellison is the Author of Where Everything Fits Beautifullt, Black Apple and the Shhh…the secret language of black women (to be released this Spring) She is the director Write Out Loud:Transforming Our Lives Through Writing Our Truths -www.writeoutloud.synthasite.com

March 19, 2009

A Night I will Never Forget – By Kimberly Jackson

Filed under: BrokenBeautiful Randomness — writeoutloudboston @ 12:08 am

One night I had over a couple of people over for drinks. My ex stopped by, we went into my bedroom he was trying to be all over me, but all I could think about was a year ago when he called his self punching on me because someone had told him that I had got into a fight and I didn’t hit back, so I started punching him.

He saw he wasn’t getting anything so he left. An hour or two went by my TV started going on and off on its own. Everybody looked at everybody, I searched for the remote control thinking someone maybe be sitting on it, but it was on the floor beside no one. We all started freaking out. One by one everybody starts to leave. I know I’m not going to be able to stay here by myself so I walked to my mother’s house.

Talking to myself as I walk down the road, “As soon I get to my mom’s house I’m going to bed.” As soon as I reached my mom’s back door, I wonder who could be up Baker’s house so I kept going through the path in my mom’s backyard. At baker’s he cook for to sale, shoot pool, drink, & play cards.

When I reached Baker’s house Veta, Paul, Baker and a couple more people was there. Veta and I had been seeing each other for a couple of days now. “What was he doing after he leave Baker’s” house, I asked. “Paul and I was just chilling,” he replied. “Would yall like to come to my house to chill,” forgetting about what happened earlier that night with the TV. “Let me go ask Paul what he want to do, see can you get one of your friend for him” Veta said. I used Baker’s phone trying to call someone, but no one wanted to come over to be with Paul.

Veta came back to me “Did you get anybody?” He asked No, I told him. Paul asked Veta to ask me to hold his dope until we get to the village. He said they didn’t’ want to drop it in the woods and since earlier the police was searching every black guy they saw because some thing happened earlier that day, and since I was a female they wasn’t going to mess with me. The only thing was on my mind was that I was going to get laid, so I said yes. Here is my keys just in case yall get there before me. They went one way, I went the other.

 While I was walking back to my house I kept checking my pants to make sure the dope was still in place. I reached the village, before I went to my house I stopped off by my cousin’s house to see what they was up to. They wasn’t doing nothing so I decided to go home still feeling nice from drinking I opened my front door, Paul was in the living room Veta was in the kitchen looking for something to eat. I went to give Paul his dope, it’s gone. “Wait,” I checked again. It’s not here. Veta and Paul looks at each other. “Where did you go,” they both asks me. When I left Baker’s house I went through my mom’s yard, over my cousin, and then I came home. “Let’s go back track, Kim please don’t be trying to play with my money” Paul replied. I made sure I didn’t drop it I kept checking, I told Paul.

We arrived over my cousin, Knock, knock, knock, my cousin’s mom came the door.” Hi, have you seen any dope in here I asked. “No, but you can go look if you want to.” After we left there Paul and I went back to my house, but Paul sent Veta down to my mom’s house to see if he could find his dope. When we got back to my house Paul and I had a conversation about how much the dope was worth. $500, he said that’s a lot of money, I said, I kept going on about how I don’t see how I lost the dope because I kept checking and it was there. V

Veta walked in, tell Paul he didn’t see nothing. Paul looked at me ” Kimberly stop playing I want my stuff and I ‘m going to fuck you up until you give me my shit” Tears starts falling from my face in a shaky voice I reply, “I don’t got your stuff, let me call my brother he would give you your $500 back”. Veta then said wait,” I’ll go search again, as soon as Veta closed my front door, Paul started walking for me, I started walking for my bedroom trying to go in my bathroom and lock him out , but he burst through my bathroom door and started choking me. I broke my mirror trying to let the neighbor know something isn’t right call the police.

Paul pulled me from the bathroom threw me to my bed and started choking me some more. Trying to steal some air, I can’t breathe, SOMEBOBODY HELP ME(!!!) is all I all I can’t scream. I can’t move, I the only thing I see my ceiling lights. Paul saw I wasn’t responding, he starts to shake me, then he gave me a big slap.

I grabbed my throat and scream “Why you do that to me,” I ask. Are you okay, Paul asks me. All I can is cry” $500 dollars I can’t believe you was going to take my life over $500, I’m hurt because I thought Paul was my freind.Veta finally came back into the house, “I found it” he replied. I started for my kitchen looking for the biggest knife I own, I ran back into my living room where Veta and Paul was, I charged at Paul , he ran the only thing that saved him from getting stabbed in his back with my knife was that he ran in my bedroom and close the door. “Get out my house,” I screamed.

15 min. after they left I heard a knock at the door, it was my cousin. “How you doing”, she asked. “Veta came by and he was like let me go give Paul his dope before he kill that girl,” my cousin told me. My heart dropped, Veta let me take the fall for something he wanted to steal from his friend.

I knew then I had to leave Abbeville before I end up dead.

 

Kimberly Jackson is the mother of one and a licensed hair-stylist. This is her first published story. She is a resident of Hyde Park, Massachusetts.

March 17, 2009

Womyn of Color Blogs u need to be up on….

Filed under: BrokenBeautiful Randomness — writeoutloudboston @ 3:26 pm

Join these conversations on women of color blogs which inform and inspire my questions about readiness:

We are not alone – there are so many women in this revolution. We are scattered folks seeking home in words and one another. Plese check out all of these blogs. I sure am and I bless the sister that put me on with this – thank you for the education!

 

My Ecdysis: Who You Calling Radical? Conversations Between WOC and RWOCand part 2
guerrilla mama medicine: isolation, communities, and international womens day
Hermana, Resist: healing by any means necessary (nonviolently)
no snow here: media against sexual violence
She Who Stumbles: The Revolution Will Not Be Published
guerrillamamamedicine: raven’s eye

March 15, 2009

On Losing A dreadlock by Joyce Angela Jellison

Filed under: BrokenBeautiful Randomness — writeoutloudboston @ 10:18 pm

For the second time in two weeks, I have lost a dreadlock. They fall silentely – small trees in the forest that grows atop my head. The losing is not a big deal – losing naturally is never as painful as when your dignity, your life is chipped away slowly, basically stolen. I have withdrawn from the Women Action and Media Conference because I felt chipped away at – and this my friends, is never acceptable – but we do accept it. Suffering in silence is not noble – infact it is cowardly. Me removing myself from a place where I felt my humanity was not respected has been a journey for me – but I did not lose a wink of sleep over my decision. I promise you I would have lost more than 40 weeks agonizing over what I lost if I attended the conference with feelings of resentment and anger resting in my belly.

I am still reeling from what I am learning from teaching. I think when you present your understanding of a truth – folks expect you to have them digest it without question. That is not my intention – oh, how I wish someone would write my wrong – pun intended! If I am incorrect about media representations and women of color – If I am incorrect about women needing to document their narratives as an empowerment tool – why is no one writing this or proving me wrong.

Does revolution equate to being alone – is there no solidarity in Boston amongst peoples who are economically, politically, and socially marginalized. I can not detect a response from the everyday to folks. My head is pounding from the dull roar of silence.

I recently attended a baby shower and someone verbally assaulted my city, Philadelphia – that place is dirty and grimy – the person sniffed. I explained quite simply Philly feeds my political spirit. I grew up with Mumia Abu Jamal peering at me from telephone booths and lamp posts. I beleived my sister, Sheila with her badass afro and light skin was Angela Davis. I saw myself reflected in Philadelphia’s dirty waters and I did not see restrictions but endless possibilities in muddy puddles.

Our mayor was black – the city council was black, my teacher’s were black and this made the world possible. To be black was not a hinderence because in the dirt and grime – there was raw beauty and I breathed it -ate – walked it and talked it. I saw Temple University perched in the middle of North Philly during the 80’s drug wars and in the midst of the war zone, there were black reporters who took me under their wings and showed me the other side of the game.

Every city should have this display of the good, bad and the ugly. Boston is tempered by the sins of good manners. Good Manners Cultivate silence and silence keeps motherfuckers in ghettos.

So, my dearest sister – please understand – who I am is largely because Philadelphia held my mothers hand as she pushed me into this world – Philadelphia is my home, my second mother and to insult her without knowlege of her is to rape her memory and all of us who come to you birthed indirectly by her concrete womb.

 

I have been keeping
my head
wrapped
tightly against the influences of
Bablyon
just since
a woman
pale
as soymilk
and
just as sincere
told
me
us folks do beautiful things with us hair
and I smiled – pulling my lips tightly across razor sharp teeth
we sure do some things I replied
the next morning
I purchased a length of cotton wide and long enough to wrap a baby
and I twisted it around my head
tucking stray dreadlocks into the folks of cloth
when I unwrapped my crown
the next evening
a long thin lock
jumped ship
another secret
recklessly
shed

 

Joyce Angela Jellison is the Author of Where Everything Fits Beautifullt, Black Apple and the Shhh…the secret language of black women (to be released this Spring) She is the director Write Out Loud:Transforming Our Lives Through Writing Our Truths -www.writeoutloud.synthasite.com

February 28, 2009

Forty Years In the Wilderness – by JoyceAngela Jellison

Filed under: BrokenBeautiful Randomness — writeoutloudboston @ 1:14 am

This city is silent. Everyone is mute and I am turning up my eardrums to tune into thoughts – capture truths. I am the harbinger of the first and last words – everything inbetween fucks with my mind.

Did you ask me if I was happy about Michele Obama being in the white house? Did I cringe? Wasnt Sally Hemmings a black woman – what about Condelezza Rice? Are you not a black woman if you work under a republian administration?

You tell me you dont see color – I say color sees me. Technically color blind is the inability to detect red and green – shades of black, gray and the absence of color are detectable. Does colorblind mean you cant see folks of color? Can you see me if I shed my skin? Can you see me if I dont oppose your truth – if I cross the racial divide and you stay safe on your side?

Did you walk out of my workshop on black women and media representation because I am in your words, “too intelligent” to cuss so much – and what do I say to your back? Could you not have grabbed some part of the message – this is me struggling to impart passion and retain my sanity.  I can only be me and I can only share my passions in the way in which I know – I accept you with your hypocrisies – but for you, must I be pristine to be valid? Please read bell hooks, Sisters of the Yam. 

Did you ask me if I ever wondered if  my ex-husband called me nigger and I did not hear?  I told you about the myths of love and the transcendent reality of marriage. We were one I tell you and look as though you have your doubts. I am not here for you to dismantle but this is what is happenning and I dont even know why I am speaking anymore.

My mother calls my daughter and I tell her to say Iam not home.  She never listens and would not recognize the sound of my voice because she has never heard me…I told you of my cutting and the need to take pain from one place and put it in another place. Did you understand that blackness can be confining if I am not allowed to be more than what you are told I am to be?

Black women cry – love, grieve, hate, forgive, dance, laugh – I am a whole being. I am a flawed being in the silent wilderness of Boston. When I speak folks just capture clicks and beeps – a radio that is not transmitting properly. 

Did you not tell me the class of seventh graders I am teaching are at a fourth grade reading level – did you throw me into the frey without a flashlight to guide me in the darkness.  Did you know I would fail? I started with seven students and I only have two left – shamefully, one I cant recall her name and she should be remembered but I am distracted by what she does not know and the little time I have.

Grandmother, you never told me of places like this and I long for a place at your table – I need to lay against your back on the too soft mattress that is your bed. The streetlight shines in and the boys on the corner play basketball deep into the night – the sound of the ball hitting the street and the swoosh of it going through the net is an urban lullaby. In the morning I realize I have dreamed you and I decide to write a letter and place it on a glass a water beneath my bed, an enticement for your spirit to return to me.

Forty years in the wilderness. I have only been here three. A lifetime of breaking silences and turning up my eardrums lay ahead.

February 26, 2009

Shelving and Simmering by Sharon Sennett

Filed under: BrokenBeautiful Randomness — writeoutloudboston @ 10:46 pm

Facing death, or at least believing I may be with this whole Cancer
thing”…. I have gone far deeper into my thoughts than I generally allow myself to go.
It is amazing how much the human being can simply “put on a shelf” to get through any given day. Things of vast importance even, say perhaps allowing yourself to forget a love that still simmers in your very human, heart.
Wanting their growth, their future… to be wonderful, with the lessons you shared with that person
partially responsible. What a privilege…Isn’t that was this living business is about after all? Allowing yourself, your truest self to allow that cage door to swing open if just for a while to fly around with those you were supposed to meet up with, or perhaps were unexpectedly summoned by you through a dense fog when you unexpectedly lost your footing.
Through the veil your lover comes…your friend comes. Perhaps your friend that is to become your lover or your lover that has become your friend, or simply but beautifully your friend….all equally magnificent in their own way, not to be measured for there is no such scale. The value you is entirely defined between you…
We believe or …many of us do, that beyond here as the body, {that tired vehicle we kick around, until we learn of it’s importance in our mission} slowly starts to back out of the deal that’s been made… towards where we have been dancing, towards the direction of home throughout our entire existence.
What does that make this in-between time? I guess that would make it a dance would it not? A perfectly choreographed dance towards our very own soul.
Skating the surface some of us, while others amongst the masses operate at a far deeper level, a sometimes perilous one where fears are fully realized, sorrows known and lived through, acknowledgments made, deals sometimes struck in the darkest of times. Then there are the joys, the ones that fill your heart and make your skin tingle, your eyes well up and in that split second you scramble, force yourself to mark a spot for this in your psyche for recall later, to freeze time, if just for a moment…just this moment. Moments then begin the turning point in your journey, whether good or bad if you believe in bad? Could one possibly exist without the other? Now if allowed, these moments, this “in between time” take over your life as it falls into your individual and magical rhythm…

February 25, 2009

Randomness and the Hidden Transcript

Filed under: BrokenBeautiful Randomness — writeoutloudboston @ 5:51 pm

This blog is an extention of Write Out Loud: Transforming Our Lives Through Writing Our Truths – a non-profit passionately dedicated to engaging women to document their stories and then introducing those narratives into the stagnated media landscape.

This is collected randomness. Women speaking aloud; The so called “Hidden Transcript” – this is the bitches, ho’s and baby mommas you pass and dismiss on the street. Did you know these are women you could easily love and learn from? A WOMAN WITH A PEN AND PAD IS JUST AS SEXY AS A WOMAN  IN LACE PANTIES WITH A WHIP.

Listen, read – join.

There is more to this revolution than meets the eye.

In solidarity and struggle,

Joyce Angela Jellison

Director/Founder of Write Out Loud: Transforming Our Lives Through Writing Our Truths

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