MLK, Beyond An End To Brutality

mlk-mug-shot

i don’t often quote MLK, but to me, this passage from 1967, not long before his assassination, points perfectly to some of the reasons that reforms will not work and a social, system-wide revolution is necessary for true change.

With Selma and the Voting Rights Act, one phase of development in the civil rights revolution came to an end. A new phase opened, but few observers realized it or were prepared for its implications. For the vast majority of white Americans, the past decade — the first phase — had been a struggle to treat the Negro with a degree of decency, not of equality. White America was ready to demand that the Negro should be spared the lash of brutality and coarse degradation, but it had never been truly committed to helping him out of poverty, exploitation, or all forms of discrimination. The outraged white citizen had been sincere when he snatched the whips from the Southern sheriffs and forbade them more cruelties. But when this was to a degree accomplished, the emotions that had momentarily inflamed him melted away. White Americans left the Negro on the ground and in devastating numbers walked off with the aggressor…

When Negroes looked for the second phase, the realization of equality, they found that many of their white allies had quietly disappeared. …the free-running expectations of the Negro crashed into the stone walls of white resistance. The result was havoc. The Negroes felt cheated, especially in the North, while many whites felt that the Negroes had gained so much it was virtually impudent and greedy to ask for more so soon.

The paths of Negro-white unity that had been converging crossed at Selma, and like a giant X began to diverge. Up to Selma there had been unity to eliminate barbaric conduct. Beyond it the unity had to be based on the fulfillment of equality, and in the absence of agreement the paths began inexorably to move apart.

– Rev. Dr. MLK, Jr.

to me this is a story not only about anti-Black racism, but also about the mechanisms of capitalism, its roots in exploitation, and its tendency to, rather than encourage us toward fairness and sharing, *exacerbate* economic disparities and concentrate power in the hands of a few. (a tendency that, for instance, Picketty points out in his bestselling recent book, Capital in the 21st Century.) in other words, the betrayal (a.k.a. tepid support) of white liberals (or liberals of any color) is not only a story of racism, but also a story of wealth and economics.

it is a story about U.S. colonialism, imperialism, rampant resource extraction, and environmental destruction, all necessary to maintain the “high” (read: wasteful) standards of living in the middle-class U.S. that set the bar for what racial equality should look like.

it is a story of what King calls, in this same piece, a “fantasy of self-deception and comfortable vanity” that falsely portrays the U.S. as “essentially hospitable to fair play and to steady growth toward a middle-class Utopia embodying racial harmony.”


fact: without the mass-scale “looting” of indigenous peoples and other nations around the globe, not to mention the enslavement of africans, the U.S. would have accumulated a mere fraction of its current wealth. this is the basis of the middle-class melting-pot Utopia to which we aspire.


this is the looted wealth that built the mansions i drove past tonight in suburban Maryland: twelve-bedroom monstrosities that cost godless amounts of money to heat in the winter. one place reminded me of the house in Clueless: staircase spiraling down to the enormous front doors.

this is also the looted wealth on which my small rented home in oakland stands. it’s the looted wealth that pays my wages. i’m not separate from this history, or above it; i inherit it every day.

i guess what i want to know is: what do we mean when we insist that Black Lives Matter? are we talking about stopping the worst of the terror, the extrajudicial executions of teenagers? is this all we want “allies” to support, or do we want something else, something more?

if we take King’s words to heart, how do we work for complete freedom, fairness, and self-determination for all beings, not just an end to the most acute forms of suffering, degradation, and oppression?

are complete freedom, fairness, and self-determination for Black people possible without completely restructuring our economy and society?

this other, bigger thing — the new phase 2 — obviously will not happen overnight, and not without deadly resistance from the people currently in power. but let’s at least be honest with ourselves about what’s necessary. sympathy and sentimentality do not help. to use a Buddhist teaching, pity is the near enemy of compassion. even if we somehow stopped the epidemic of police murder against black people, black children, how long before the giant X of diverging priorities reappears?

thanks to Adam Claytor for sending me this book in the mail. lots to think about.

A Preacher. A Poet. A Manta Revolutionary.

LIANNE_LA_HAVAS_-1
Okay, I may be a little obsessed with Lianne. But to be fair, so is Prince (yes, Prince), who called her to say congratulations.

Women and the genius things they make and do. Here are just a few.

I am not a Christian, so to my ears this recorded sermon by my friend Nichola sounded more like an arahant (enlightened one) elucidating the teachings of the Buddha. On this very night your life will be taken — by endless, cavernous craving. Tanha. I knew Nichola was brilliant, a student of Jesus, James Baldwin, and other pretty okay characters, but damn, I don’t think I had ever heard her preach before. At the time I was at a friend’s place in San Francisco, and once I started listening I was so captivated that I stayed huddled on the living room couch, rudely ignored my friend-hosts  while they tested the day’s crock-pot soup in the kitchen. (That craving, that need, even for wisdom — like she says at the pulpit, it’ll make you ignore your loved ones if you’re not careful.)

I am not a poet, nor a scholar, really, but I know what I like.  What makes me pause from internet “snacking” (a term I learned from web marketing experts studying cyber-habit-patterns) to recollect my breath.  My friend Kim, on the other hand, is a scholar and poet and artist, and thank goodness.  That piece will stay with me — and don’t miss the video she links to, minutes 3:45 to 7:54.

I am trying to become a revolutionary, but it’s less simple than it sounds, though thankfully also less cult-y (so far).  In this arena, mother and self-identified manta-militant Berta will remain unlinked, as she is best experienced off the Internet, but she has been no less crucial to my week and my spirit.  Berta torpedoes through this fearsome world with a cheerful pragmatism, a humble, no-bullshit incandescence.  She makes being a revolutionary seem like the only sensible thing one could do with one’s life — and vows, smiling, to keep at it til the day she dies.  I believe her.

And then there’s Lianne, who I mentioned earlier, and cannot stop listening to.

 

 

Birthday Cake from the Comrades

birthday cake
Ginger-chocolate cake made by Becca, Eliana, and Roxy

I won’t talk about my birthday, but I will talk about James Baldwin.  Or, really, listen to him.

It is a pity that [Eldridge Cleaver and I] won’t, probably, ever have the time to attempt to define once more the relationship of the odd and disreputable artist to the odd and disreputable revolutionary; for the revolutionary, however odd, is rarely disreputable in the same way that the artist can be.  These two seem doomed to stand forever at an odd and rather uncomfortable angle to each other, and they both stand at a sharp and not always comfortable angle to the people they both, in their different fashions, hope to serve.  But I think it is just as well to remember that the people are one mystery and that the person is another.  Though I know what a very bitter and delicate and dangerous conundrum this is, it seems to me that a failure to respect the person so dangerously limits one’s perception of the people that one risks betraying them and oneself, either by sinking to the apathy of cynical disappointment, or rising to the rage of knowing, better than the people do, what the people want.

Because it’s my birthday week and I do what I want, I’d like to argue for a broad definition of “artist” that includes those of us interested in wisdom. (Baldwin, as an artist, certainly was.)  Which helps explain, maybe, some of the awkwardness and contradictions in the Buddhist-Marxist combo.  One operates at the level of the person (or the non-self, existence, but framed in an individualistic fashion that was revolutionary at the time of the Buddha’s teaching), while the other concerns itself with the people.

Perhaps a similar tension also underlies the queasy slipperiness of identity politics — or identity, period.  “Identity” (gender, race, ability, sexuality, etc.) is at once intensely personal, emotional, and subjective (our stories), and simultaneously collective, socially and historically determined (our position).  I’ve written about this paradox before; maybe an unsurprising fixation for a mixed girl. ;)

My bad, friends: this was supposed to be a birthday post!  I lead an extremely fortunate life amidst a blessed contagion of creativity and caring from those around me.  No idea how we’re going to reconcile the person and the people, but I’m lucky to find myself in community that wants to try.

Thanks to everyone for the bornday love.  And deliciousness!

To Be Truly Radical

Jacob_Lawrence_Play_1999
Jacob Lawrence, “Play” (1999); silkscreen

 

To be truly radical is to make hope possible, rather than despair convincing.

—Raymond Williams

I like to think that many others have expressed this same sentiment in places I’ll never see, in times before mine, in languages I can’t read or understand.

 

To_Preserve_Their_Freedom1 jacob lawrence
Jacob Lawrence, “To Preserve Their Freedom” (1988); silkscreen

A Tale of Two Drug Dealers

fruitvale station cops

When I went last night with a friend to see the award-winning film Fruitvale Station, depicting the final day’s events of police murder victim Oscar Grant, I naturally expected to get angry about racism.  And I did get angry — though, owing to the film’s complex, relatable approach, deftly shifting between heartbreak, horror, and humor, I felt many other things, too.  (You should really see it, if you get a chance.)

But one of the most striking reminders of U.S. white supremacy glared across the screen even before Fruitvale’s opening credits.

Meet the Millers is, according to the trailer, a zany comedy about a white dude sent on a mission to Mexico to smuggle in a ridiculous amount of weed.  Knowing he’ll be more conspicuous at the border if he’s alone, he assembles a team of white working-class ne’er-do-wells to act as his hetero nuclear clan, faking wholesomeness (synonymous with whiteness) to deflect any law-enforcement suspicion.

This, just before a film whose main character, a Black man, struggles to stay out of prison, wrestling with whether or not to keep selling trees to pay rent for his family.

And whose racist criminalization makes his last encounter with the law anything but a joke.

Black Americans were nearly four times as likely as whites to be arrested on charges of marijuana possession in 2010, even though the two groups used the drug at similar rates, according to new federal data.

—NYT

Telling [people of color] they’re obsessed with racism is like telling a drowning person they’re obsessed with swimming.

—Hari Kondabolu

Morning Marching Song

After a night dreaming of Trayvon demos, I woke up with a new chant-song in my head.  Lyrics below, chock-full of links.

stand up to Zimmermans
stand up to Minutemen
stop-and-frisk you ain’t caught shit
the white and rich you always miss
“terrorist threat” on plane get stripped
American drones KeepKillingKids
billions more for border biz
but whose land do you think this is?
justice for the black & brown
holler if you’re down

Empty for Trayvon

buddhist monk meditating

At this morning’s meditation, the still-fresh news crawls my skin like a tiny spider — down the neck, the right arm, until it drops, gently threading down from the tip of a finger.

Departure of imaginary spider creates a ghost imaginary spider.  Her double-absence haunts the mind more.

Trayvon’s killer has gone free.  Black lives again mean nothing.  9am morning meditation, I sit powerless.  Fatigued.  Trying to get free, be nothing.  I know I am doing it wrong.

I can’t

he can’t

we can’t

we can’t

we can’t…

…powerless for now.

Rape Culture and Power Pyramids: Recent Thoughts

The past few weeks — and especially the past few days — I’ve been reminded of how rape culture thrives on social power pyramids: where the contributions of people at the top — be they star athletes, beloved artists, or skilled political leaders — are considered so important that people instinctively ignore, justify, or minimize the violent behaviors of the community’s golden child (or children).

This shows up frequently, in small ways.  I’ve heard more than one friend of a socially powerful feminist in the Bay confess to me that they feel afraid to tell her “no.”  Not that this fear necessarily defines their relationship with this person (and these conversations happened a year ago; perhaps their fears have since subsided or transformed), but to me, statements like that are a red flag for rape culture.  Someone is at the center, and getting on their bad side means you might get ostracized — or worse.  Besides, what they contribute is so vital and powerful…

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RIP, Chinua Achebe

Even as we strive for liberation,
any truly emancipatory struggle must also be its own reward.

“To answer oppression with appropriate resistance requires knowledge of two kinds: in the first place, self-knowledge by the victim, which means awareness that oppression exists, an awareness that the victim has fallen from a great height of glory or promise into the present depths; secondly, the victim must know who the enemy is. [They] must know [their] oppressor’s real name, not an alias, a pseudonym, or a nom de plume!” —Chinua Achebe (Nov. 16, 1930 – Mar. 22, 2013)

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via Julia Wallace of SU/LU.