#and yet also recognize myself as privileged in that I can even try for disability in the first place

[1-ufo]

Dealing with fighting a disability case for 3 years has been the most…

Just.

I don’t even know how to describe it. Dehumanizing? Gas lighty? (Especially from the parents) nerve wracking… thing

Just got off the phone with my lawyer and he says things are getting near the end and like literally my entire life is hinging on this thing and it’s

A lot. It’s a lot

[undefined5posts]

Credit: Jordan J. Lloyd

I've been trying to dive deeper into politics, discover the genuine roots of our society, the origins of our beliefs, and the consequences of our economic system. It's a big, long, wide journey and through multiple sources such as articles, images, videos and multiple social media platforms, I've been trying to educate myself more on important subjects.

Communism, capitalism, libertarian, conservative, the left, the right, the history, the impact. It is scary to commit to everything because once you start, you simply cannot stop, once you start waking up your conscience about the horrible reality, the lies, the truths, you cannot put it back to sleep. You can't just ignore prejudice, especially when you're extremely conscious of it's omnipresence. I have continually tried to build my own opinions all while actively creating bullet point arguments in my mind because I just know that at some point I will have to defend my thinking, and I want to do it right.

Now, I am so far from being enlightened, I am a beginner and an amateur in all of those themes, but I am trying, which is the only way to start and grow.

So to tell you about my beliefs, I am a militant human rights activist, I believe in equal opportunities regardless of gender identity, sex, religion, sexual orientation, ethnicity, race and disability. This is a fact, not a belief, but the system was obviously not built to protect all people, its wasn't created to serve everyone equally but to grant a privilege to some and harm others. The current state of the world is not a slip, an accident or a misfunction of our brilliant system but a testament of it operating remarkably well. I believe that equity leads to equality, and I believe that we cannot "fix" methodologies that were immorally created with absolutely no honor whatsoever. I believe in reproductive rights, in legal, safe abortions for anybody who needs one. I believe in the decriminalization of marijuana. I believe that the death penalty is a despicable punition that should be banned as soon as possible. I believe in defunding the police and the military. I believe that it is a shame that I even have to talk about police brutality, I don't want to have to say that it is one of the most horrible things our world has originated, I feel extremely dense when I do because it seems like the most obvious certitude and I refuse to believe that this is a controversial statement. I believe that everything I have just stated, along with many more, isn't anything grand but the bare minimum, the bar is low, and yet, we still have the fight for basic human decency.

Humanity has become an option. We have normalized supporting people that represent everything wrong in this world under the name of tolerance. The left has never claimed to be tolerant towards hateful beings, We have never accepted homophobia, transphobia, racism, ableism and sexism. We cannot, for exemple, accept nazis, as too much tolerance inevitably leads to intolerance. This picture explains it perfectly:

I consider myself a communist/ socialist. The two terms still confuse me a little, some say they are the same, some say they differ quite a bit. What I know is that socialism is the transitional period between capitalism and communism. At the end of the day, the final result and goal is a stateless, moneyless and clasless society that will provide to each his need.

Our capitalistic society has brainwashed us way more than you may think. It is the root of so many of our issues, the underground demon of our problems. Every idea, thought, belief, and misconception of ours were all affected by our current economic system. It has sold us the billionnaire dream which is one of the most toxic things capitalism has offered. We have looked up to billionaires for way too long, why are they so idolized? Most of them come from high upper class families that can easily afford to invest in their inventions and creations. After starting up their companies and occasionnaly stealing other's people ideas to ultimately get undeserved merit, they then can start to properly exploit their hardworking employees's labour. And for unlimited hours and a minimum wage which probably won't even suffice you to survive, you will have to either pick up more shifts or a second or even third job, especially if you have a family to support. All while the CEO barely does any of the work and gets all the praise and money. So no, they don't all come from really poor families and have built everything for nothing.

The worst thing is that we've been so gaslit and brainwashed that we're proud of our own exploitation, we are wired to think that to be successful we have to suffer, work 10 jobs we all hate, constantly pick up extra hours, have 2 hours of sleep, have no free time to do anything we love, waste our entire youth, be depressed our entire adulthood, to finally have a few pennies to spend when we're eighty. We so strongly believe that this is the only right way to be successful that I don't think many of us have dared to question it's authority, and even if we do, we quickly accept that this a truth, a fact we cannot change and this is just the way things are.

We have capitalized water, food, land, forests, oceans, space, and everything in betweeen. Money is social construct and we have deliberately let it take over our lives. To think about the wasted opportunities and the misery that we have to endure so others can enjoy life truly angers me.

Also, communism is not an ideology that has every actually taken place. Despite what they say, there was never actually a communist country. However, every nation that has attempted a socialist system, for exemple Burkina Faso, has thrived. But of course, once capitalist countries noticed that, they decided to murder it's leader. So in conclusion, the only reason socialism failed is because of capitalism and it's interventions.

"As President (1983-1987), Sankara initiated economic reforms that shifted his country away from dependence on foreign aid and reduced the privileges of government officials; he cut salaries, including his own, decreed that there would be no more flying in first class or driving Mercedes as standard issue vehicles for Ministers and other government workers. He led a modest lifestyle and did not personally amass material wealth. President Sankara encouraged self-sufficiency, including the use of local resources to build clinics, schools and other needed infrastructure. [...] President Sankara promoted land reform, childhood vaccination, tree planting, communal school building, and nation-wide literacy campaigns. He was committed to gender equity and women’s rights and was the first African leader to publicly recognize the AIDS pandemic as a threat to African countries. Although Sankara became somewhat more authoritarian during his Presidency, his ideas, and the possibility that they could spread, were viewed by many as posing the greatest threat. President Sankara was assassinated during a coup led by a French-backed politician, Blaise Compaoré, in October 1987. Compaoré served as the President of Burkina Faso from October 1987 through October 2014, when he himself was overthrown."

Via:https://africandevelopmentsuccesses.wordpress.com/2015/02/28/success-story-from-burkina-faso-thomas-sankaras-legacy/

I have been reading and watching some amazing human rights activists, notably Angela Davis, Malcolm X and James Baldwin. The people that were villainized, labeled as violent and radical, when every single word that came out of their mouhs were pure facts. They are probably some of the most eloquent people I have had the pleasure of hearing. Every sentence, every argument, every single detail made so much sense and opened my mind to so many new realizations. This is the perfect exemple of how the media tarnishes the reputation of wise black women and men. I would strongly advise you to research more about them.

"Socialism & communism are demonized in the west to the point of erasing influential individuals' socialist advocacy. Heres a short list of people you may not have known were socialists/ communists:

MLK

Albert Einstein

Nelson Mandela

Frida Kahlo

Tupac Shakur

Mark Twain

Malcom X

Oscar Wilde

Bertrand Russell

Hellen Keller

Pablo Picasso

George Orwell

Shia LaBeouf

John Lennon

Woody Guthrie

Socialism & communism are not dirty words. Some of the most brilliant minds of our history were socialists and communists. Embrace it." Via @sleepisocialist on twitter

So what else can I say, capitalism has ruined our society and the way we act and think. I know a lot of people refuse to support communism because they think it's too much of a perfect ideal utopian world for it to ever actually exist. And to that I say, first of all, so you agree, it is a wonderful theory, and second of all, a world without racism, sexism, homophobia or any kind or discrimination could also be perceived as "too ideal to actually exist", but does that mean I'm giving up on talking, educating myself and others, protesting and trying to build a better future? Absolutely not. This is the objective, it would be so dumb to think that we just couldn't achieve that so let's not even try.

I want to talk more in detail about communism, theory, human rights, etc... but I don't want to make this post any longer. I will however be posting more about it soon enough.

I know this is a little different than what I usually post, but I want to speak, tell you all my own opinions, I don't want to just repost activism related stuff. I'll continue to do that, but not exclusively. I know it won't get as many interactions as my other posts, but this is what I needed at some point in my life, and if I could make understanding some basic informations easier to some people, it'll already be a great accomplishment.

Thank you for reading.

[shmegel]

Stream of Consciousness Texts That I Sent to A Large Grouptext of Friends at 2 AM Again Like The Unhinged Woman I Am: Coronavirus and Chronic Illness Edition

——————-

My dad started talking about giving my brother hope about the school year and going back to school, and I’m realizing that’s probably happening before the vaccine (which will likely come out around January). What the heck am I gonna do? Do I need to move out? Schools are gonna be where this thing spreads. My brother will bring it home, I don’t know what I’m going to do about it?

I wish I were healthy so the prospect of living on my own wouldn’t be so scary. I’m so weak and exhausted, I feel like making three meals a day, doing my own laundry and cleaning, and somehow handling groceries (I guess Shipt and sanitizing them myself) would be too much for me to do alone with my limited energy. And that’s not even taking into account factors like what to do in flares when I’m BEYOND sick like can’t get out of bed, or finding a place safely, or not losing my mind alone. I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about this.

I just want to be healthy, guys.

It’s so upsetting because this could’ve been over months ago if the majority of people took it seriously quickly. If everyone stayed inside for just two frickin weeks we could’ve been fine. But now some of us may have to do it for a year because this stupid country isn’t even compassionate enough to sacrifice two gotdang weeks for the weakest of us. And I’m one of the lucky ones, able to stay in like this for maybe a year! Others just die! I’m frustrated that this is a situation in the first place, and I’m frustrated that I’m sick enough that it still could kill me even months after people have stopped caring. I never asked for this. I’ve done everything I can to be healthy. I spend more time trying to improve my health than any one of you and yet I’m the one still sick at the end of the day with very few improvements. I’m so tired.

I would be tired even without Covid, but this is just highlighting the inequity in disability. It’s highlighting the privilege many have of being able to NOT worry about health, about doing nothing to stay healthy and still having infinitely more energy than someone working hard on health and getting nowhere. God I wish I could be as carefree as those spring breakers hanging out in crowds on the beach for no reason other than they can and they don’t care. I wish I didn’t have to care. I still would, but I wish it wasn’t forced upon me. I hate that even if individuals have basic empathy (which of course many don’t), our system lacks it. This country makes me sick. Literally.

I wish I could just fly to another country with low Covid numbers (one that allows flying in if you obey their mandatory quarantine), quarantine for two weeks, then start over. I’m sick of this country anyway. Unfortunately, that would require me to be in a US airport and in a US airplane, so I can’t even do last resort stuff.

And I doubt anyone has the same level of quarantine we’re doing here- no outside cooked food, just cookable groceries. Thoroughly sanitizing everything that comes in. Not even leaving the house for work or grocery shopping. And most importantly the fact that I’ll be doing it until I’m positive it’s safe, which will probably be until there’s a vaccine.

I guess I’ll just super-quarantine in my own house. Stay six feet away from everyone. Everyone wearing masks at all times. No touching anything that anyone else might touch. I don’t know, it just seems daunting to know that many months from now things will not only have not improved for me, but will have gotten worse. Especially since this whole thing was entirely preventable- I wish Cheeto in Chief had an ounce of compassion. I wish he was punished with the disease- even if he had survived it might’ve taught him it was real and dangerous early on. I wish my life mattered to this country, this system, and to millions of people here. I mean, if you knew someone would die if you didn’t simply stay in your house for two weeks, wouldn’t you do it? I can’t believe that same logic doesn’t apply to lives like mine for so many people.

Anyway, what do I have to look forward to when all this is over? Shopping? Restaurants? Seeing friends maybe once a week? Petty. It’s all petty. I wasn’t working toward anything before this except for health, and that’s not going to be fixed because I can’t even get any blood tests right now, let alone have doctors do any in-person appointments and important checks like MRIs, X-rays, CT scans. Everything put on hold and nothing on the other side. You all have jobs and education and lives outside of the house- I really don’t. I mean, I had a part time job but it’s not like it’s working toward something, and I may have lost it in the pandemic anyway. You have jobs and new houses and apartments and boyfriends and education and children and energy to do pretty much anything you need to do and exciting or productive lives to live. What do I get when I come out of this? Probably just a bunch of cavities to fill because this happened when Sjögren’s Syndrome started melting my teeth and they can’t do much without more tests. I really have nothing to look forward to- that’s part of why this has been easy (I’m not missing much) but it’s also why thinking ahead proves to be just... disturbing. I try to stay positive but my day to day life has felt pointless for a long time, and in the short term that doesn’t matter, but god it’s a terrible thing to confront when I recognize that my only two options in a few months are going to be stay inside and feel sick OR leave my house and feel sick, and either way I don’t get anything done or really work toward anything except feeling ok, which I may never. I may never feel ok! I miss feeling like I have purpose. I still have ambition but it’s undirected because honestly I don’t think I have the energy to do any of the stuff I used to picture myself doing. So I don’t know what I want to happen here. Honestly this virus and my quarantine could go on for years and I would feel the same as I do now. I felt stuck long before the quarantine, because I’m not stuck in this house, I’m stuck in my own weak body.

And I’m sure this is disturbing to read because I’m kinda mildly fine most of the time and optimistic and positive and all that, and I know I blow up probably once a week at this point so maybe it doesn’t even seem that way anymore??? At least I still act that way in person, lucky you guys get to read my terrible rants. But I just want someone to see this, you know? I want someone to know that me being positive isn’t an accident, that it’s hard work against the mountain of garbage being thrown at me mostly by MY OWN BODY. It’s terrible in concept. I’m actually feeling fine right now mentally but I need someone to know the concepts I’m wrestling with: the fact that my worst enemy is me and it’s by no fault of my own. I was dealt a bad hand. Even in the very best of circumstances, without Covid, I’m living a pretty unfulfilling life. Sickness makes it hard enough- to be at higher risk of death or permanent damage in addition to that is just cruel. I just wish I could project this into everyone’s brain so they could understand why it matters so much that people freaking care about each other enough to protect each other from having even more difficult lives- or even deaths. I want to survive!!!! I’m clawing at the walls of suffering until my fingernails bleed!!! I keep it in my head that I’m gonna get out of this pain someday even if that’s not necessarily true!!! All I want is to live and to live well. I just want to live well. I’m happy to live and to survive so it’s gotta get better someday. I just wish the world cared a little bit more. I wish I had something tangible and fulfilling to look forward to. In this moment, I can be happy and read a book or watch TV, but I wish the other type of happiness was a factor in my life again, the sense of fulfillment and accomplishment. Sickness has taken so much from me.

[theamberfang]

983

Apparently I’ll be going in for an eye exam and, ostensibly, new glasses. Honestly, it’s something I’ve been kind of worried about because—though the lenses have been fine for me—the frames are old and have a number of visible cracks. So yeah, I’m grateful for this, though I have no idea how my parents are paying for it. I mean, we’re not exactly poor, so I guess my father could just be paying for it outright. I don’t know; I just have this anxiety around money and anything medical or whatever, like an eye exam even, just immediately makes me think of the cost (in a way that I don’t quite think of as much with other things, like food).

Hmm, I’m actually reminded of a video essay I rewatched today. It was about Monsters University from the perspective of disability, and part of it brought up how people who are born talented—born “gifted”—can struggle mentally once they are challenged, because, due to their talents, they hadn’t grown up learning how to deal with adversity. (And the larger point was that this was a way for people with disabilities to find solidarity with those that can appear highly-abled, as Mike and Sully find in one another.) And yeah, I relate to that a lot: probably a big part of my struggle with perfectionism. But where I want to go with this for this post is that I grew up with the social support that’s provided to a military family: full medical, dental, and whatever. It’s stuff that I simply didn’t seriously grow up worrying about, so now I’m paralyzed when having to consider such things. I’m not saying that it wasn’t a privilege, because it was, but I also was left unprepared for losing that privilege as an adult. Like, I figure a lot people reach adulthood with relatively similar levels of medical security that they had as children, so they either never need to stress much over it or they learn how to manage and deal with it growing up.

Speaking of stress, I think “my darkness” was in my dreams last night, except they weren’t present as a bunch of shadows and dark. Instead they had the form of, like, a rapidly shifting animated cartoon-style character. Like, their proportions drastically changed from moment to moment. The context of them showing up was me trying to board up a room/building, as if I were barricading the place for, like, a zombie attack or something—except there weren’t zombies as far as I was aware; I was just doing it against some vague danger. And I guess I had the lucidity to question it, and that’s when this other part of myself became angry at me, and I was lucid enough to figure out who they were.

And I think this dream does have to do with my recent attempts to recognize my paranoia for what it is: and to understand and manage it. Something I didn’t mention from a couple of days ago is that I stepped out into out backyard for a bit: to get some air and sunlight. The thing is that we don’t have any fences or anything; I could just walk over into the neighbor’s backyard, and over to the street out front, without any obstruction. And while I was out there a neighbor kid saw me from, like, their front yard I guess, next to their drive way, and I ended up panicking my way back inside.

I guess maybe “paranoia” really might not be the right word to be honest, because it’s not like I have some delusion that the kid was going to try to, like, get me. It could just be an intense anxiety that would be associated with some sort of personality disorder. Yet, recalling what happened after, I do recall hearing people outside, and my assumption was that the kid told their family, so they were looking around for whoever was “sneaking around”. So yes, I did believe they were out looking for me without any sort of justification other than “a kid saw me.” I didn’t think they were coming to, like, hurt me or something, but the thing is that such an encounter, if they were to find me somehow, would be bound to be greatly embarassing and stressful; I could see it triggering an anxiety attack. And like, it’s probably overly reductive to think that paranoia is only when you think people are coming to do you physical harm. Being unduly fearful of mental and emotional trauma—even if it would probably be unintentional from those inflicted it—could possibly qualify as paranoia.

But mostly my insistence on the word “paranoia” for my symptoms now is to more accurately describe the intensity of what I feel, because “anxiety” doesn’t cut it no matter how I modify it with adjectives. I guess a “phobia” can possibly describe my experience, but I don’t feel like I’m scared of anything specific enough for that.

[cpbandr]

Final Reflection

In this class, I learned the value of being an independent woman. After reading so many different stories about women in other cultures that are often forced to marry in order to be protected, and how they have to cover their beauty so they are not physically assaulted I believe no woman should be told how to dress or have their role assigned. Growing up in a free country I know that I am fortunate because I can make my own decisions and I have decided that the best way to help women stuck living with outdated cultures or governments (those that do not believe in women’s independence) is through education. A great meme in our course syllabus states, “Write what should not be forgotten.” This is true for teaching women that they deserve to live equally with men and that joining feminist movements can help in the fight for equality. We are identified based on our gender, race and so much more, but at the end of the day we all are human and for that alone we should have equal rights. Being homosexual, a different race or gender should not determine how we dress or how much we get paid, but it does in many cases. Using the media to shed light on the discrimination women face in everyday life is a most valuable way to end stereotyping. A powerful woman such as Ms. Crenshaw and Ms. Okpranta are just two women that are helping to increase change through their writing.  TedTalks can help reach women that are not allowed to live freely. In order to live in a world that allows independence, the value of acceptance is another important lesson I learned this semester. When people accept who you are, you are able to express yourself freely and not feel forced into a box that society chooses for you, based on gender. I am only nineteen and have no clue who I am, yet, but I choose to live every day with an open mind allowing me to become the person I will grow into, and having the support of my family and friends is the best thing for me. After reading Three Daughters of Eve, I felt as if I understood so much about how her mom viewed religion and the struggle people face every day when their parent’s views do not align with their own. However, after doing some research through the weekly powerpoints, I was distraught to learn the author, Ms. Shafak was prosecuted for “insulting Turkishness” and would face up to three years in prison. Her book is so important in helping women understand the way gender and tradition are typically viewed by some religions or cultures, or statuses (class structure).  Issues are just a few of the important themes discussed in the book. Not having literature bring to light the way things are in other countries is the way governments stop educating women on how they could live their lives. Not having writings also stops the effort that people go through in order to spark change. Women often try to break the stereotypes that culture forces them into believing.  A valuable lesson Mohanty shared is that we are often blind to a perspective outside our own. This reminds me of a horse that has blinders on,  stopping him from looking around at things that might cause distractions. Knowing that so many women are raised not being allowed to see life choices and opportunities is horrible. However, this brings us back to educating women through writings which can help to remove the blinders some women are forced to wear.  Finally, they can see how other women are living independently and choose which way of life they really prefer. There have also been many words I have learned throughout this semester including androcentrism and ethnocentrism, but the words that taught me the biggest lesson were the difference between sex and gender. Until this semester, I had assumed that both words meant the same thing. However, I now know that sex is what you are assigned at birth while gender is how you are assigned culturally/ socially. With my generation focusing on being more “woke” I think this is a powerful thing to educate others about. Luckily with the use of gender-neutral pronouns, we are able to easily recognize how someone chooses to identify themselves rather than just assuming based on outward appearance. I have always been terrified to identify myself as a feminist due to the many men I know who would think I do not like them based on their gender. However, I was able to be educated on what the term feminist means and can confidently identify myself as one because I believe in equal rights and especially equal pay. The thought of being judged for a gender I was born with and not have any control over is sickening to think about. After searching ‘What it means to be a woman?’ I found an article that states “Being a woman means being able to be powerful and assertive, yet kind at the same time. It means being compassionate and vulnerable towards those we love in our lives without feeling weak for doing so. It means striving for our goals even in the face of the adversity we may encounter along the way.” As women, we are told to hide our emotions unless they are deemed nurturing, but for men, they are able to show their emotions and be told it's because they are “men.” I work in an athletic store and when there are sports questions by customers they typically never ask females to help them in our golf department rather, but our most qualified staffer in that department is indeed a woman.  Oftentimes men would rather hear things from someone of their own gender because they feel as if we are “lacking qualification” just because we are women. Even though we all have to go through the same exact training, they prefer to hear it from a male. 

A quote found in the same article mentioned above is a better representation of what it means to be a woman “To me, being a woman also means using my own privilege to support others—Black women, disabled women, and trans women—who face even more barriers than I do. I love being a woman, and I love having the privilege to fight for my right to be a woman with full control over my body, future, and life.” said Tegwyn Hughes. We have the power to control our future, our bodies, and our life based on taking a stand against things we consider sexist and by using our voices to create change and against things that are unfair. We are fortunate to be able to educate women in countries such as India whose culture believes  “a woman’s sole purpose in life is to be a good wife and mother.” Nowhere in this statement does it mention that a woman’s role is to provide and have a job and live an independent life outside of the home. These women are raised this way by their mothers and the culture is causing them a lack of education so they don't ask for equal rights. Thankfully, powerful women all over the world are writing books and starting movements with other women to bring about change. As found in the ‘Radical women, embracing tradition’ one woman spoke up about how she felt about injustice happening in her country and talked about the issue with other women, “first just 10 or 20, then 50, and finally hundreds of women---- wearing white, singing, dancing, saying they were out for peace.” As a woman I know I would have the support of so many other women if I ever spoke out against feeling upset about the way I was treated. I remember being younger and thinking I wish I was a boy, it would be so much easier. Now after taking this class and learning about the movements and goals women have created to help create gender equality makes me proud to be a woman. Every day women are a force to be reckoned with, especially in sports. A woman currently in the news that has had the support of so many other women is Simon Biles. After deciding to not be in the final of the 2021 Olympics, women from around the world took to social media to stop any hate she was receiving. At first, I had no idea why they were supporting her because as many articles stated she had lost us the gold medal. However, Ms.Biles is so much more than an athlete and a medal. She is a woman who has been assaulted by her own doctor and used her voice to speak against him alongside many other girls on her team. Oftentimes, sports allow male doctors to get away with what occurs by paying off the athletes, but instead of letting that happen, the gymnasts used their collective voice to show that it is okay to speak out and stand up for themselves. 

[korra-the-red-lion]

Unnatural Affairs. Chapter 9: Locker Room Ghost.

(Ally + Lyn + Michael)

Ally.

Unfortunately, I had to spend the last couple of days catching up on my schoolwork.

As it turned out, you still had to do the work even if all your classes were cancelled. After my night in the library with Lyn, I realized with sickening dread that I had forgotten to finish my assignments. So, I spent all of Thursday and Friday frantically catching up on my work.

We had to do our presentation of Miss Julie this Monday, so Michael, Mags and I spent all day Friday practicing our lines and doing the write up. I got to caught up in all the researching and ghost speaking that I nearly forgot that the whole reason why I was here was for school. Oops. Professor Kinkly didn’t seem like the kind of person who would take any kind of excuse as to why things were handed in late.

After that, I lugged myself back to my room and worked away at a paper I had for my Anthropology class. I had to write about cultural adaptions in other countries, so I picked beauty standards in Japanese culture. I was only allowed 700 words, which didn’t give me a lot of space. I wasn’t very good at limiting myself.

Sarah was back now, after she went home to visit her parents when classes were cancelled. She was typing away on her bed, also working on something. Eventually she groaned loudly and slammed her laptop shut.

“I hate my sociology class so freaking much,” she whined.

I took my ear bud out, turning my chair to face her. “What’s the issue?”

“I have to write this like, super judgy paper on underdeveloped neighbourhoods,” she complained to me, shifting on her bed until she was hanging upside down. “Except the film they made us watch a movie that was like, totally made by privileged people who like to blame people for issues they can’t control.”

I frowned in distaste as I listened. “Ugh, sorry to hear that, Sarah. That’s so frustrating. They need to update that course ASAP.”

“Right? Like, why do people blame the poor and underprivileged?” she glared at the weird stain we had on our wall.

“Probably for the same reason we don’t make things accessible for people with disabilities and chronic illnesses,” I remarked, a tinge of annoyance lacing my words. “The world is run by rich, able bodied, white assholes.”

“Valid point.”

“I have those sometimes.”

She snorted before rolling onto her stomach. “I’m going to grab something to drink. You want something?”

I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Okay, suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. I waved her goodbye as she left before I turned my attention back to my dumb paper.

Of course, it didn’t take long for my thoughts to drift back to my conversation with Janna Kawada from a couple of days ago.

“Hey, are you the student who did an interview for the student paper about the showers?” I had asked as I approached the team who was finishing their practice from the looks of things.

She eyed me suspiciously as she took a sip from her water bottle. “Yeah. Who’s asking?”

“I’m Ally Holland, and I uh…I’m writing a paper about what happened,” I lied nervously, hoping it would work.

Janna raised her eyebrow before shrugging it off. “Whatever, I guess. What about it?”

“Do you mind just telling me exactly what you saw?”

She sighed dramatically. “I already told this all to Anna, why do I need to repeat myself? It’s in the paper.”

I swallowed hard, attempting to make myself look serious. It was a little hard when you were short and had a bit of a round face. I looked like a big child. “Please, I need to know.”

“Seriously?” She searched my face before sighing again. “I was changing after practice because I left early when I heard a bunch of screaming coming from the showers. I went over to see what the hell was going on and saw all the swim girls covered in blood. They were totally freaking out. I thought it was some shitty prank until I saw a couple of them crying. Then I looked and the showers were still spraying out the blood. That all you need?”

It was nearly identical to what she had said in the papers. I frowned, mostly in disappointment. I was hoping there was more that she had to share. “Um,” I started hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“Was that the only thing you saw?”

She stared at me with a strange look. “Why do you ask?”

“Well…” I chewed the inside of my cheek, “the article in the paper suggested that there was more, that the team was cursed. I was just wondering if you noticed anything else that seemed strange.”

Janna was silent for a very long time. I was getting a little disheartened when she gave a shaky sigh. “Listen, I’ll tell you this but no one else hears it,” she said with a slight tremor, “got it?”

I nodded quickly, pulling my pen and notebook out. She eyed them with disdain before shaking her head.

“I thought I saw a strange face in the mirrors.” She looked around uncomfortably. “I thought it was just one of the girls, but I didn’t recognize her at all. Not that I know all those girls, but she was really hard to focus on. When I looked again, there was no one there. I just figured I imagined things since the whole situation was freaky as shit.”

I wrote this all down as quickly as possible. “Thank you, Janna! This really helps!”

“Well,” she looked at me suspiciously again, “good luck on that paper then.”

This basically confirmed to me that there was a ghost haunting the women’s locker room. I looked up at the ceiling as I completely forgot about my paper as I got deeper in thought. Since most ghosts lingered in the spot they were killed in, that meant this ghost was at the very least killed in the Athletic Centre. I thought maybe Amelia Turner was our suspect, but I wasn’t so sure. The obituary Lyn found made it sound like she committed suicide, meaning that the cause of death had to match that. It just didn’t connect in my head quite right.

I suspected that there was a different person haunting the locker room. I bit my lip, trying to piece together this puzzle. Blood showers, attacking a student, mirrors. Usually a vindictive yet harmless act, like the showers, was an indication that this ghost was trying to get attention, or so claimed the supernatural book I read the other day. An attack suggested aggression, maybe vengeance. But by all accounts, Jackie had nothing to do with this. She was a victim of circumstance more than anything else.

Maybe the ghost was losing itself? I read that it could happen to someone who was being forgotten. If a spirit still had familial attachment to this world, they were less likely to go feral. But if there was no one to remember the spirit, or in this case the soul of the person, as they once were, they lost themselves to the darkness. Was this the case here? Was the Locker Room Ghost being forgotten? If we could help them pass on peacefully, then it doesn’t matter if their last attachment to this earth forgot them. However, that meant we needed to help them soon. An angry ghost was much harder to pass on then a normal one, because they became corrupted with negative feelings.

I wasn’t sure how long I stared up at the ceiling, lost in my thoughts before my phone buzzing on my desk startled me back into existence. I nearly fell out of my chair as I scrambled to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Ally!” Michael’s voice boomed out.

I winced as I turned down my volume. “Yeah?”

“What are you up to? Are you busy?”

“Um,” I spared a guilty glance at my long-forgotten paper, “nothing. What’s up?”

“Can you text Lyn and meet me up at the pond?”

“Yeah, sure. Right now?”

“If you don’t mind!”

“No, I can,” I said glancing at the time on my laptop. I wasn’t sure if Lyn was at practice or not. I thought she usually was there for 4:30. “I’ll be there in a few. Bye.”

“Bye!” he said cheerfully before we both hung up. I sent a text to Lyn before grabbing my coat and purse.

I closed my laptop, whispering “Sorry” before heading out. I will finish that horrible paper tonight. But for now, it must remain unfinished.

XXX

Michael.

October was one of those months that made zero sense in Canada.

Yesterday it was so freaking warm that it was regretful to wear pants, but today was chilly coat weather. I didn’t know whether to blame climate change or if this was just typical of this province, but it never did this back home. Yuck.

I dropped my backpack as I sat down waiting for Ally and Lyn. I originally was going to suggest the big tree, but I kinda wanted to be away from ghosts for the time being. I had a plan tonight involving ghosts and I wanted to stay spirit free for awhile.

It wasn’t long before Ally got here. I thought it was really funny that she was wearing a coat and scarf yet refused to wear pants. Homegirl was committed to her aesthetic and I loved that. Her socks legit went all the way up her thighs, leaving only a sliver of space between her way too long coat and the top of her socks.

I grinned at her in greeting as she sat down next to me. She adjusted herself to a comfortable position.

“Lyn said she’d be a few minutes, but she couldn’t stay too long,” she explained as she loosened her scarf.

“All good. I just wanted to share this really quickly.”

She nodded as she relaxed. I poked her in the face when I noticed she was wearing her thinking face again. She looked at me confused as I shrugged in response. She rolled her eyes and leaned back. The fact that we could sit silently like this was nice. There wasn’t a lot of people I could just sit with, but Ally was one of them.

Eventually Lyn jogged over to join us. She plopped down immediately and said, “What’s up? I gotta head to the pool in like 10 minutes.”

“It won’t take long,” I promised as I reached for my bag. Ally and Lyn watched me curiously as I opened it up, digging around for a bit before I found what I was looking for. With a triumphant smile, I pulled out the bag of jewelry I got from Talia.

“Ta-dah!” I presented them with a huge grin.

Lyn reached over and picked on up gingerly. “You called us here…” she said examining it slowly, “…for some rocks?”

“Not just any rocks,” I said happily. “Special rocks!”

Ally picked one up as well, turning it over between her fingers. “These are gemstones, right?” she asked, looking at me.

“Yes!” I beamed. “I got them for protection! Those black ones are onyx, and they’re suppose to protect us from any attacks. These are for you,” I put the amethyst and onyx in Ally’s hand, “and you,” I dropped the onyx and quartz in Lyn’s.

Lyn eyed hers skeptically as Ally put on the bracelets. “Aw, thanks Michael,” she said as she examined it in the sunlight.

“How the hell did you know my ring size?” Lyn questioned as the quartz ring fit her perfectly.

“So that’s the extremely creepy part,” I said. “I didn’t realize it until I got home but somehow just by your names alone, Talia knew who you were.”

“Right.” Lyn slipped the ring off and put it in her pocket. “That is very creepy.”

“Maybe she’s a witch or something,” Ally joked.

“If you tell me that werewolves are real, I’m heading out.”

“There’s no proof that they aren’t real,” I pointed out. Lyn groaned as she pushed herself to her feet.

“Is that all? I gotta bounce otherwise.”

“Oh! One more thing!” I said quickly. “Tonight’s the full moon.”

Realization dawned on Ally’s face as Lyn looked between us to explain. I said with a wave of my arm, “Supernatural powers are enhanced by the moon. I think we should go to the locker room tonight and see if we can talk to the ghost in there.”

“Uh-huh,” Lyn said slowly as she crossed her arms. “Wouldn’t that mean the ghost will be stronger or something?”

“Yeah.”

“So, the ghost who has already proven itself as dangerous would be more powerful, and you want us to go on a ghost hunt?”

“That sounds about right to me, yeah.”

Lyn gave me a hard look. She glanced at Ally and asked, “Are you okay with this?”

Ally looked over at me, and I nodded seriously. “I can get DNA samples if we get them at their most solid.”

She nodded and turned back to Lyn. “I trust Michael. Besides, we have these for protection now,” she said, holding up her wrist. “I don’t know if any time is a good time, so now is better than waiting for another student to get hurt.”

Lyn looked between us again before sighing deeply. She threw her hands up in defeat. “Yeah, okay, sure. This is so bonkers anyway. We’ll go tonight around 11, how does that sound? I’ll even get us a key to the building, so we’ll be the only ones inside, just in case.”

“Thanks Lyn!” Ally and I chimed together, smiling at her. Lyn rolled her eyes, but her lip quirked upwards slightly before she grumbled off to practice. Ally watched her go until she made her thinking face and got lost in thought.

I gave her a couple of minutes to stew. I wasn’t kidding when I told her she’s always thinking. She must have dozens of thoughts bouncing around in that head of hers at all times. It wasn’t until I saw her draw her lip in for that thoughtful bite she always did that I poked her in the temple, drawing her back to reality.

“Whatcha thinking about, Ally?” I asked with a chuckle. “You’re making your thinking face.”

“I don’t have a thinking face,” she replied.

I laughed. “Yeah, you do.” I pulled my eyebrows together and pulled my lips in. “It looks like this.”

“You look stupid.”

“It’s your face.”

“Hey!”

“You walked into that one.”

She looked over at me for a second before she fell back with a groan. I poked her again when she didn’t say anything, causing her to groan louder. Finally, she muttered, “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense?”

Ally looked up at the waning sun. “The Locker Room Ghost.”

I fell back with her and linked my hands together over my belly. “Why doesn’t it make sense?”

“Because Lyn found another woman who died on campus, Amelia Turner. What doesn’t make sense to me is the obituary. It sounds like she died via suicide, but a locker room isn’t a place I would do that in.” Ally’s face scrunched up in frustration. “Especially young women in the 90s. I feel like the place would be more private, like a bedroom or even a bathroom. But an open space locker room where anyone could have walked in on it? That’s where the disconnect lies.”

I frowned in thought. That was actually a good point. “Gosh, Al, you’re good at this. I don’t think I would have noticed that.”

“Fat lot of good it will do,” she grumbled. “But I’m really worried that the ghost in there isn’t Amelia, which means we’re dealing with someone else entirely.”

“Did you ask Dahlia about it?”

She shook her head. “It came to me this morning. Plus, I was so focused on catching up to that stupid assignment for my Anthro class and the write up for Drama that I haven’t had time to go talk with her. Maybe I should…”

My eyes drifted absently to where I know she was residing. I shuddered slightly when I thought about the pressure that area brought on when she revealed herself. “Maybe not today,” I suggested.

Ally looked over with a question in her eyes. I propped myself up on my elbow as I faced her. “I just…it was hard to breathe when you talked to her with me. If my theory of the full moon giving them a boost is true, then she must be freaking strong right now.”

Ally hummed in thoughtful agreement as she closed her eyes. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Anyway, maybe I’m overthinking it. I could be totally off. Also, you’re not sure on the whole full moon thing?”

“Not exactly, but most of the books I read seemed to agree with the theory,” I said. “It’s worth the risk, I think.”

“I agree.”

We laid there for a little while, watching the sky get dark. I wasn’t sure what was going through Ally’s head at the moment, but I knew I was starting to feel a little anxious. I really hope that this worked out for us and that we could solve this quickly. Unfortunately, I had a bad feeling this wasn’t going to be resolved by Thanksgiving.

XXX

Lyn

“I’m heading out, Nura,” I said with a yawn. “Don’t wait up for me, ‘kay?”

“Where are you going?” Nura asked.

My hand wavered between my parka and my bomber jacket as I decided between the two. “I’m just meeting up with some friends for a bit,” I said as I grabbed the bomber and threw it on.

“A party?”

I snorted as I redid my ponytail. “You know I would never. I have a swim meet in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh right,” she chuckled. “I forgot, you don’t do that.”

“Rarely,” I said dryly. I pulled on my tattered old Converse and tied the laces tightly. “Okidoki, see ya. I’ve got my keys and phone, so seriously don’t wait up for me.”

She wished me goodbye as I closed the door behind me. I pulled my tuque from the pocket of the jacket, jamming it on my head before stepping outside. It was obnoxiously cold tonight, but I always loved the smell of Autumn air. It didn’t take me long to get to the AC, where Ally and Michael were waiting.

Michael was wearing a backpack that looked to be pretty full. I raised a brow at it, and he grinned.

“Supplies,” was all he said.

I shrugged before glancing at the darkened building and frowned. “Right, guess we’re going in.”

“Yeah,” Ally said quietly beside me.

“It’s just a ghost, yeah?”

“Hopefully.”

I looked down at her. She only offered a noncommittal shrug. Yeah, that makes me feel totally safe. I stuck my hands in my coat pockets and sighed.

“Sounds like we’re good to go,” said Michael as he headed for the front door. I reached over and grabbed his shoulder to stop him from moving forward. “Huh, what?”

I shook my head. “I forgot, but the building lights are activated by motion,” I explained.

Michael looked slightly confused, but before I could explain the issue, Ally piped up.

“That means people would know there was someone inside. Security would come by and see what’s going on.” She looked at me. “Is that correct?”

“Yup.” I started walking off. “But there’s another way in. Follow me.”

We walked around the building until we got to the back door. I knelt down in front of the door and opened my own bag. I pulled out a shoehorn. Michael and Ally both shot each other a confused look before Ally opened her mouth to ask about it. I shook my head to stop her as I turned my focus on the door.

“Don’t ask,” I muttered as I jammed it under the door. “I got into a lot of trouble when I was younger.”

Like I suspected, they didn’t lock the back door. It was something they did often. A lot of the guys who worked at the desk were on the football team, and they would leave the doors unlocked so they could sneak in to use the pool for partying. I slowly pulled it open enough that I could hook my fingers around, grinning as I did.

I stood up as I opened it wide. “After you,” I said with a mock accent, bowing to them two of them.

Once we were in, I closed the door gently just in case. I wasn’t sure if there was anyone still left inside or if the guys snuck in tonight. A Friday night pool party wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. I listened for a minute, waiting to hear the sounds of guys talking or splashing. Luckily, it seemed like we were alone for now.

“This way,” I whispered. I lead them down the hall, using the key to open the door to the weight room. The lights flickered to life as we cut through, humming softly. I unlocked the other door and ushered them through. A short walk later, and we were in the women’s locker room.

“What do you want to see first?” I asked, looking around for some supernatural signs. So far nothing, though I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to see anything.

Ally’s eyes flickered to our locker room before connecting with mine. “The mirrors, actually.”

I lead them into the bathroom. Ally walked over to the mirrors and began searching around them. Michael joined her, poking around the sinks as well. I stood off to the side, not really sure what I should do. What I did notice, however, was how freakishly cold it was in here. Don’t get me wrong, the locker room was sometimes really fucking cold, but not like this. I could see my breath in here. That freaked me out, just a little.

Ally shivered as she stepped away, her eyes searching for something that wasn’t there. She was muttering to herself under breath, little white clouds puffing out as she did. Michael had wandered into the showers to see if he could find anything interesting. I stepped closer to Ally almost unconsciously.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

“Huh?” Ally blinked, clearly knocking herself back into reality. “Oh. Yeah, a little.”

I pulled my tuque off and put it on her instead. She reached up and brushed her fingers against it lightly. She looked at me quizzically.

“You look like you need it more than me,” I said lightly.

She smiled. “Thanks.” I didn’t fail to notice the blush on her face, and I looked away, thankful for the darkened room. I felt like my ears were on fire.

Suddenly, her eyes snap back to the mirror. I froze, searching. I couldn’t see anything, but Ally started approaching the mirror cautiously.

“Ally…” Michael stepped over, his voice quivering.

“What’s going on?” I asked, trying to stop the panic that was creeping up my throat.

Ally placed her hand on the mirror, staring at nothing but clearly seeing something. “What do you mean?” she asked absently.

I don’t understand what was going on. Michael was staring at the same spot, but there wasn’t anything there. Ally was clearly having a conversation with someone.

“Why shouldn’t we be here?” Ally asked, tapping her finger against the glass. “Please, tell me.”

What the fuck…I stepped back in fear. I could feel a growing tension as the lights flickered on and off. Michael dug around his backpack before he pulled out a flashlight, turning it on. He whipped the light towards me.

“Lyn, are you wearing that ring I got you?” His voice was tight with control.

Confused, I shook my head slowly. He urged me to put it on as the lights finally settled. I slipped it on, but I didn’t notice a difference. Ally was stepping away from the mirrors, looking around panickily.

My heart was thudding in my ears as I looked around, but I’m pretty sure whatever happened was over now. Shit, I wasn’t going to be a lot of help here, was I?

“Ally, what happened?” Michael asked.

Ally was breathing quickly. She forced herself to take a deep slow breath before looking over at him. “She said we shouldn’t be here.”

“Who?” we both asked at the same time.

“I’m-” Ally glanced at the mirror in a mix of confusion and fear, “-I’m not sure.”

Oh. Cool. Cool. Coooooooool. We were already dealing with some unknown ghost and now there was potentially another fucking person to deal with? My legs were shaking but I forced myself to lean into the wall.

“Ally,” my voice cracked, “should we go?”

She looked at me, her pupils large with fear. It looked like she was racing through a ton of thoughts at once before she settled on one. She shook her head, swallowing thickly before saying, “No. I wanna see the locker room. Unless…” she hesitated, “…you guys wanna go.”

Fuck yes, I wanted to go. I was scared shitless. But some part of me, some crazy part of me, said to stay. We needed to see what happened to Jackie. So, despite the screaming protest in my head, I shook my head. “It’s this way,” I squeaked.

I brought them over to the entrance of our locker room. With a shaking hand, I punched in the passcode and opened the door. I turned on the lights so we could see. I haven’t been in here since the attack. The wall was covered in a tarp, to cover up the writing on the wall I suspected.

Michael stepped in and pulled the tarp off. I was holding my breath but released it when I saw what was there.

It was mostly gibberish. There wasn’t a coherent sentence in the words, but I did pick up a couple. Help. Death. Here. Ally pulled her phone out, taking a picture of it. Michael pulled a swab out of his pocket and ran it against the wall. He pulled out some oozing goo, which looked really fresh. He carefully put the swab in a tube with a mixed look of disgust and interest.

“Are we good to go?” I asked nervously. I had both hands over my ears, squeezing them anxiously.

“I think so,” Ally said in mild disappointment. She looked around one last time before sighing. “I guess she left.”

“Who?”

“The ghost in the mirror,” she answered. I stepped out first, waiting for them to follow after me. Michael was the last one to leave. Before I closed the door, I felt something wet drip onto my hand. I stared at it blankly, my mind not comprehending what it was. It was dark and slimy. The lights flickered as I looked up slowly.

Hanging from the ceiling was some demonic looking creature. Its eyes were glowing green in the dark, and when we made eye contact, it cracked its head all the way around before opening its toothy mouth, howling at me.

I screamed.

XXX

Ally.

I heard Lyn scream. I heard something else scream too. I looked over as she slammed the door shut. She whipped around towards me and Michael, shoving us forward.

“What was that?!” I asked frantically.

“I-I-I have no fucking i-idea! Lyn stammered out, looking behind her shoulder. An arm punched through the door, ripping a hole as it retracted.

A head poked out. The face was distorted and inhuman. Bloody salvia dripped down its face as it linked eyes with us. It howled again as it dragged its body through the hole it made. It was human shaped but wasn’t at the same time. The limbs were disjointed, the torso large and barreled shaped. But something really stuck out to me.

Those eyes looked so sad and lost.

It jumped at us, but we managed to turn the corner before it hit us. “This way!” Lyn yelled, running down the hallway we came up from.

Michael pulled a bag out of his pocket and threw it at the monster. It screeched in pain as it reeled back. It clawed at its face, blood spraying as it tore into flesh.

“What was that?” I asked as we ran.

“Salt!” he cried.

Oh, that made sense. I should have brought some. It only slowed it down a little bit, before it launched itself at us again. This hallway seemed for much longer the second time around. It felt like we ran forever and ever as it stretched in front of us. Was what going on? I tried to think about all the books I was reading before this, but my mind was coming up blank. It took a swipe at us, howling in pain. Lyn shoved me to the floor as the claws raked her arm. Blood sprayed in an arc as she shouted in shock and pain.

“Lyn!” I said as I scrambled to my feet. “Are you okay!”

“I’m fine!” she gritted her teeth. She held her arm, blood oozing through her fingers. “Michael, do you have more salt?”

Michael watched the beast approached us with horror. His eyes flickered to her before nodding. “Two bags left.”

“Hold it off for a minute,” she growled. She plunged into the weight room as the beast reared up on its haunches, taking another swipe at us.

We both ducked to avoid having our heads be taken off. Michael threw some of the salt on the floor and tossed the rest at the monster. It screamed in frustration and pain as its flesh burned from the salt. I screamed as it reached over for us, its clawed hand grabbing me and lifting me into the air. It knocked Michael aside, knocking his head into the wall. He slumped to the floor boneless.

“Michael!” I shrieked. I wiggled against the grasp, but I could barely move. “Lyn!”

The monster yowled in my face, spittle and blood splattering me all over. I winced, trying to get away. It did it again, squeezing me tightly. I whimpered as I felt my bones creaking, unable to draw a full breath of air.

“ARRRGGHHHH!!” Lyn roared as she ran over. She swung a weighted bar like a bat, smashing it against the arm of the beast.

I fell to the floor as it roared in agony. Lyn swung again, hitting it in the face this time. It smashed into the wall, writhing in pain. Lyn reached down and helped me to my feet. She was breathing heavily as she backed up.

“Is Michael…?”

I shook my head. “Just knocked out.”

“Are you able to lift him?” She eyed the monster as it pushed itself out of the wall. I shook my head again. “Fuck…okay. Ally, hand me that last bag.”

I reached over and took the salt off of Michael, who groaned in pain. I muttered an apology to him as I shoved the salt in her hand. Lyn took the salt and rubbed a bunch of it over the weighted bar. She shouted as she swung it, hitting the monster one last time before she dropped it on it, pining it place.

She scrambled back as it shrieked so loudly that the overhead lights shattered. “That’s not going to last!!”

Together, we hoisted Michael over her shoulders and made a mad dash to the door. I pushed it open, and we ran outside, the cold air feeling like a blessing on my sweating face. We kept running until we were far enough way to feel safe.

I spared a fearful look at the Athletic Centre, but the demonic beast hadn’t followed us. I collapsed to the ground, my tears mixing with my sweat. I shook uncontrollably as Lyn laid Michael down gently and sunk to the ground herself.

My breathing was getting shorter and catching as I tried to take in air. My vision was spotty as I brought a trembling hand to my face, trying to get the blood off. Lyn must have grabbed my hand, but I wasn’t sure when.

“Ally, can you hear me?” she asked calmly.

I looked over at her. I think I nodded.

“Okay. What are five things you can see?” Her voice sounded so muffled.

“F-five things?” I hiccupped.

She nodded. I blinked a couple of times, trying to refocus. “M-Michael. Grass. You. Lamppost. S-scoreboard.”

“Okay, good,” she smiled softly, turning my gaze back on her. “Now four things you can feel.”

“G-grass.” I shakily raised my hand to brush her hand. “Your hand. The b-b-breeze. My leg.”

“You’re doing great,” she murmured. “Can you list three things you can hear?”

My breathing was slowing down a little, allowing me to take deeper breaths. I nodded to answer her question. “Michael groaning. The bugs.” I locked eyes with her now. “You.”

Lyn’s eyes shone with something as she nodded. “Yup. Two things you can smell?”

I took a deep breath through my nose. As I did, Michael had rolled over and vomited all over the grass. My face scrunched out a little in disgust. “Vomit…shea butter?”

“My lotion,” Lyn chuckled softly. “Can you tell me one thing you can taste?”

I shook my head. My mouth felt extremely dry and sandpapery. Lyn reached into the non tattered pocket of her jacket and pulled out a candy. Her hands shook as she unwrapped it. She pressed it against my lips, which I parted slightly so it would go in.

After a couple of seconds of sucking on it, I said quietly, “Caramel.”

“How do you feel now?” she asked hesitantly.

“A b-bit better,” I took another deep breath. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “We needed to get going,” she tried pushing herself up, only to wince and gasp in pain. We both forgot about her arm in the heat of the moment. She fell back, pressing her hand against the wound.

“Is everyone alive?” Michael asked groggily, his face in the grass. At least he scooted away from the vomit spot.

“Yeah,” I answered. I was still shaking, my head was still pounding, but I could breathe. I looked over at the building again, but I didn’t sense any negative energy coming from there. What was that thing? Was that a vengeful spirit? If it was…that wasn’t what I expected.

I shook my head, forcing myself to refocus. Lyn and Michael needed medical attention, and my panic attack wasn’t completely dealt with. I shakily got to my feet, fighting a wave of nausea. Once I was sure I wasn’t going to fall over, I helped Lyn to her feet too. Together we lifted Michael up, my heart sinking when I heard Lyn hiss in pain.

“Are you okay?” I asked concerned.

“I will be,” she said through gritted teeth. There was a sheet of sweat on her face and she was shaking way more now. “The adrenaline is just wearing off now.”

I didn’t completely buy it, but we needed to get Michael help. I was pretty sure he was concussed. I bit my lip, regretting that as soon as I did because there was blood on it. I spat on the ground. “Okay, where do we go? The hospital I guess?”

Lyn frowned. “They’ll ask questions, but it makes the most sense…”

I silently agreed with her. I didn’t want them to ask what happened, but we had very limited choices. Why couldn’t life be like books and TV? Heroes always get these wild injuries that magically were fine a couple hours later. Oliver probably should have died like 7 times an episode in the early seasons of Arrow, but he always turned out fine. Totally unfair.

The only major issue is we had no way to get there unless we walked. I wasn’t sure any of us were going to be able to make it there without passing out. Lyn sighed through her nose as she looked around in thought. “Fuuuuck, okay. I’ll call someone.”

“Who?”

“That’s the question,” she muttered. She pulled out her phone and dialled. “Olivia, hey. Can you pick me up?”

Lyn’s face dropped as she listened to the person on the other end for a few agonizing minutes. “Liv, okay. Yeah, hmm. Fuck, okay, I’ll come home Thanksgiving. I just need you to drive me and my friends to the hospital, no questions asked.” She rolled her eyes as she huffed in annoyance. “No, don’t tell mum and dad. Thank you.” She hung up without saying bye, dropping her injured arm with a groan.

I wanted to ask who that was, but I was able to put the pieces together. I adjusted Michael, who was starting to stand on his own power a little bit more. “Should we just wait here?”

Lyn nodded sullenly. “Yeah, my sister is coming to pick us up. We might as well sit while we wait.”

She lightly settled back on the ground, making sure Michael was comfortable first. I sat next to her and put my head on her shoulder. She stiffened slightly at the contact before slowly relaxing. It was so strange to think that we could be sitting here rather serenely even though we just avoided death not too long ago.

I guess life does always move on, even through tragedy.

[inkybrittany]

Words

The truth is, I’ve been guilty before of making snarky, reactive, passive aggressive Facebook posts but me writing this is not directed at any one. I hear this so frequently but I don’t think I’ve ever posted or written about it before. Most people reading this already know it and agree but somebody out there needs to hear it.

I have a message for anyone still using the term “retarded” as an adjective. When you use that word it, it makes you seem like you have low or no consciousness or sensitivity. You have friends who have kids or even family members of your own who have disabilities & it’s an awful, triggering word if you know or care about anyone who has been lessened by that label. I still hear this  coming out of people’s mouths so often and so casually, and from people I respect, it’s shocking! When I was younger I said it too, all the time, so there’s no judgment but over time I realized that this is not just casual meaningless language. It’s incredibly hurtful and when you say it, it just signals that you must be super out of touch & not have anyone in your life who you’re personally close to with a disability. If you did, you’d never say the word & you’d never try to justify using it in any context. Just No. 

There are so many words you can replace it with. My favorites are Bananas, Ridiculous, Rubbish, Wild, Wacky, & Silly. Also try not to replace it with other ableist words like Crazy, Insane, Lame. I am still trying to flush these words out of my own vocabulary and I still mess up. When you DO mess up, it’s ok! Just auto-correct, try to do better, and you eventually will. Because of the big campaign to End the R Word, I feel like I shouldn’t be writing this but somebody out there might need to hear it who’s just not yet considered it. This article about ableist language is pretty informative but I think the most important thing to remember is this (from Lydia X.Z Brown who you’ll meet in a minute): “ Ableism is not a list of bad words. Language is *one* tool of an oppressive system. Being aware of language -- for those of us who have the privilege of being able to change our language -- can help us understand how pervasive ableism is. Ableism is systematic, institutional devaluing of bodies and minds deemed deviant, abnormal, defective, subhuman, less than. Ableism is *violence.* “

While I’m on this subject, there is another disability-related term that makes me shake my damn head and I’ve been thinking of making a post about this for a long time.

Can we please stop saying “Special Needs” ??? ESPECIALLY parent advocates and advocacy organizations???

I want to wholeheartedly blast the idea that people with disabilities’ “needs” are in any way “special.” People with disabilities’ needs are the same as all people’s needs! The need to be safe, the need to know others and to be known BY others and to be in social relationships and friendships; people with disabilities need education, opportunities to explore their own unique gifts & interests, and opportunities to grow, contribute & above all the need to belong. (Please watch David Pitonyak’s vid We are Hardwired for Belonging)

Some people with disabilities might need accommodations and tools to get around and live life every day, but you know what? Lots of people have bad eyesight, so they need the accommodation of glasses or contacts. What’s the difference there? Every person who uses glasses & contacts does not get lumped together, labeled, segregated, and called “special.” Using that phrase is nothing but a mechanism for branding people and treating a whole lot of beautiful, diverse people as if they are exactly the freaking same. And you know, I’m not at all surprised when I see the words ‘special needs’ in the newspaper, or or a headline shared by WTOC or WSAV’s Facebook page, I expect that. But people in the advocacy community who say it, I’m like really? Many many many parents of kids with disabilities are quite firm and will tell you, My kid’s needs aren’t special! They’re the same as your kids’! But I still see advocacy groups & pages on Facebook sayin it like it’s nothin. 

One more thought related to language & disability.

Last month I attended a screening of “Intelligent Lives” starring my friend Micah Fialka-Feldman, when a man stood up at the end and PROUDLY announced that his organization had gone to the lengths of completely erasing the word ‘disability’ at every level, from their internal speech to their written materials. The premise, he stated, was that “we don’t see people as disabled” and, therefore, are making serious efforts to discontinue using language that acknowledges that someone is any different from other people. Although I can quasi-appreciate the underlying intent & sentiment, I think this its not only naive but a horrible idea. It’s the same as when people start with that “I don’t see color.” The reason we need to see color and disability, is not because we need to reduce anyone down to a singular dimension or identity label, but we need to acknowledge how the world works different for people -- politically, socially, economically -- for non-white and non-able bodied people. And for somebody whose organization purports to do all kinds of good things for people with disabilities, it just made me know immediately that whoever is running the show over there is not somebody WITH a disability or somebody who’s really trying to take serious direction from self-advocates. Erasing that word is erasing the reality that people with disabilities endure every time they have to decline an invitation to go out with their mates because they don’t have accessible transportation or the building is physically inaccessible. And so many more realities. It’s not a good idea!

(By the way check out Micah & his book Through the Same Door.)

My friend Lydia X. Z. Brown, an Autistic self-advocate, scholar and general badass, explains this much better: “When I say that I am "disabled," I am not putting myself down, insulting myself, suggesting that something is wrong with me, or making a negative statement about myself. I am staking a claim in an identity that is important to who I am as a person. I am recognizing that my mind/body function atypically, and that because of this, I am constantly forced by mainstream social/cultural attitudes and the laws and policies that enforce them to choose between being othered (and then discriminated against or outright harmed) or accepting the idea that I must hide who I am by passing as an abled person. By calling myself disabled, I am rejecting the idea that it is wrong to have a mind/body like mine.” Read the full article here. I cannot wait to see Lydia again and hear them speak in March at the 2019 Savannah Autism Conference.

I hope everyone’s year is off to a good start. One of my hopes for this year is that we can all do a better job of listening to the voices & perspectives of people who are actually self-advocates with the lived experience of disability & can get behind THEIR leadership. Parent advocate perspectives are important but should not be the only narratives out there about people when there are so many dynamite self-advocates who are telling us what we need to hear. If you’re on Instagram, follow @open_future_learning

🌹

[coldalbion]

Look I get it: Cultural Appropriation & Anthropocentrism

All the posts regarding cultural appropriation from closed cultures make sense - some have proper channels you can go through to get initiated. Others don’t. That’s fine, and people from outside the closed culture must respect that.

But there’s a glib phrase that often gets tacked on - some variation of “People are more important than spirits/non-corporeal entities.” And it is glib, because while the phrase is meant to highlight that structural racism and colonialism has occurred; that it has been and continues to be, damaging to varying cultures across the world, and thus the wishes of one human should not supersede or usurp those of entire cultures? It nonetheless neglects the ontological status of those same spirits and non-corporeal entities. The interactions with those same spirits and landscapes form the root basis of those same cultures. 

By glibly saying that people are “more important,” one is privileging humanity over over other entities - whether that be animals, plants (surprise: some non-human spirits are corporeal) landscape spirits or human dead. There’s a word for that: anthropocentrism.  And you know what? Anthropocentrism is ingrained; so much so that scientists are now calling the age in which we find ourselves the Anthropocene. They’re doing this because humans have had such an effect on Earth  that it’s rivalling major epochal events in Earth’s history - mass extinctions, climate change, geological and atmospheric shifts - you name it. Unless you have been raised in an indigenous society, (and sometimes even then) you’ve swallowed anthropocentrism hook, line, and sinker. It’s as much part of the Invisible Architecture of Bias as structural racism and gender inequality. Humans are the centre of the universe, the chosen species, the ones to whom all other wights and beings are subservient. (Spotting the Abrahamic bias you never noticed, yet? It’s even interesting from a Gnostic perspective - the arrogance of the Demiurge passed down.) Doesn’t that narrative also enable racism? Throughout history colonizers have treated native populations as sub-human or Other-than-human. Even indigenous and historical societies Othered their enemies, often making them out as monsters or bad spirits!  Here’s where it gets tricky: 

If every single one of us is enmeshed in anthropocentrism, what can we do? I’m a hard polytheist and it’s taken me years to recognise even the potential ontological implications of this. In an animist model, the ontological status of spirits or wights is both incredibly simple and mindbogglingly complex.

It’s simple because it boils down to this: wights (an Old English word which roughly translates as conscious being  thus a useful catch-all term which includes gods, spirits and humans) have an ontic status.  For those who know your Heidegger, see also Dasein. That’s to say, wights have presence, a Being-There-ness.  The properties of a specific wight are distinct from the quality of their Beingness-in-the-world.

Once we acknowledge that presence of that which is other than ourselves, whether that be other humans, or spirits or gods, we must also acknowledge that sense of that presence is felt - that is to say, perceived by ourselves through our embodiment. For example:

I perceive my partner via my eyes and other senses, this perception allows me to acknowledge her presence in the world. I do not know for certain that she is capable of similar cognition or modelling as myself  but I extrapolate those qualities from observing her behaviour. However, such observation and extrapolation of her qualities is separate from her presence.

 I assume the presence of other entities in the world, even if I cannot directly sense them - readers of this piece, the 44th & 45th Presidents of the United States, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, @wolvensnothere, my cat, etc.

Even though I  cannot directly currently perceive the above, I assume their Beingness-in-the-world  using the same embodied cognition which feels the presence of my partner. The quality of that feeling, its nature, is irrelevant here. It nonetheless occurs, even if I am not consciously aware of it. It is this occurrence which levels things.

The assumption that all that is the in world has Beingness is now my baseline assumption. It is the root of my life. More than that, it is the root of all things. What does this mean?

This base is my way, my first few steps at an “intersectional” spirituality: if all Others have a root presence in the world, it is as if there is a vitalist commonality. This shared Beingness means that we cannot separate the intersections of landscape, wights and humanity. All are connected by Beingness. 

As such, interactions with spirits must be performed on fundamentally equal terms as with humans or animals or other entities. Note that this is not anthropomorphism - rather, it is a fundamental philosophical (and theological) axiom. The properties of each wight or entity must be considered on a case by case basis, as should their intersections with other entities I consider my extended kin-group (friends and family, and connected wights). Over time, the fundamental connection of Beingness provides us a path to recognize further intersections and connections between entities. For example, the genus locii/and/or landwights of a deprived neighbourhood might be investigated or contacted; they might be hostile, and even if not, they might require appeasement, or be willing to come to some arrangement for the benefit of all parties. Meanwhile work with the ancestral spirits of those in the neighbourhood might improve the personal economic situation of individuals who find they can now afford to donate to community causes. This sense of shared community leads to mutual support in times of trouble which means that relations improve, the landscape becomes more well treated, etc.

It is impossible, in this methodology, to separate both the presence and suffering of living communities from their Dead - and even more so in the case of oppressed folks. The memory of the community, the felt-sense of those-once-living held in the hearts of their loved ones, must be maintained, and from that, stretching back.  To know one’s history is to find connections; the oppression of today is rooted in the sufferings and actions (good or bad) of the Dead. To bring them forth, to interact with them as part of the world in which we now find ourselves? They are not cast-off husks, having served their purpose in order to engender us. On the contrary, it is they who give us our current vitality. Those slaves who died, those colonizers who took them; those who died in wars, and those who started them; those who loved freely and died of AIDS, and the cops who beat them. All these have Beingness, intersections with the communities in question. This is not about morality, after all.

We are but one node in a net, one arbitrary point made by intersection. There is no centre. To combat anthropocentrism is to engage in a difficult battle, because it requires us to hold several ideas in mind at once: 1. That we, as individuals, are not the centre of the universe.

2. That we as a species are not the centre of the universe; that we are not ‘set apart’; all that makes us ‘human’ is not better or worse than any other behaviours, be they organic or inorganic. It simply is.

3. All our moralities are rooted, at base, in felt sense - even if that felt sense is either empathy or that engendered by recognition of our own mortality.

4. That nothing we do matters.

5. That our actions and felt sense nonetheless create meaning.

6. That we are unaware of the majority of our actions and feelings.  

You might note there are some potential contradictions in this list, and that’s rather the point. To be able to hold contradictory ideas in mind and recognize them as such is important. Note also that these ideas are just the starting point I began at.

When idiots try to compare the Holocaust to factory farming? Or American slavery to Roman? Ask yourself why they are idiots. Go beyond the reflexive anthropocentrism; think instead of all those lost, all the connections and interrelations, the sonder of every single being, whether they be Jew, Rromani Black, LGBTQ+ or disabled, or some Other that has been persecuted or enslaved -  think  on their unique life and story. Think on the way their culture was torn away from them, how their family history was lost. And when that felt sense arises - when you have finished weeping and swearing never again, if you are so inclined - be aware of their presence. Even though they are dead, they are nonetheless in the world, influencing it - as individuals and as a whole. Beingness is outside of time. So here, we return to the notion that interaction with the world as manifold-presences in a particular area is the basis of all culture.  These interactions and intersections between wights and a landscape enlivened by Beingness, set in motion the actions and reactions which build a given culture.

Realising this blew my mind; that arguments over ‘existence’ were a blind alley. Cultures form out of particular survival methodologies and customs. That is the first step; ensuring your people stay alive and prosper. Pacts are made theophanies occur; bulwarks against an indifferent yet presence-haunted world.

To say “People are more important...” is to unknowingly benefit from thousands of years of precarious navigation through a living world; to benefit from centuries of habitat destruction and ruthless hunting to extinction; to cast spite into the teeth of ancestors and living indigenous traditions who consider the landscape an ancestor, or fight to protect their land from rapacious corporations seeking to risk poisoning rivers and causing earthquakes purely for profit. 

Despite its good intentions, statements such as this isolate us from the living whole, creating illusions of safety and false superiority where there is little to be found - only hard work and clear eyed acceptance of how things are, before we attempt to make them as we wish them to be.  Pardon the pun, but the idea of hermetically sealing ourselves off in our own domains, whether they be those of identity politics or living spiritual practice seems counter productive. Instead, we should realize we are merely one of the Many - and act accordingly.

[lauracori-blog]

The Three Pointed Compass

I was recently avidly doing online research into traveling, travel blogging, and ways to travel and live inexpensively, and I came across a TedX talk by Scott Dinsmore called “How to Find and Do Work That You Love.” Scott runs his own business called “Live Your Legend,” about following your passion and your heart and learning how to work based on how you want to live your life, not to live your life based on your work. He pointed out three aspects of a person painted on a compass that anyone looking to change their lives for the better should evaluate, to really understand what it is they want; what inspires them. These three things are 1) Unique strengths 2) Values and 3) Experiences. While he spoke, I started to get those butterflies I mentioned in my previous post; those harbingers of change and possibility. Some may call it a purely “Millenial” outlook on life, to feel like I can really do anything I set my heart to, but to me, it comes from my unique strengths, values, and my past experiences, that give me the calm confidence and knowledge that there is a world out there waiting for me; that my life is not already set in stone; that a 9-5 and quiet house in the suburbs, don’t have to be my reality if I so choose. 

Scott spoke to this, and it resonated with me more than I can say. I then proceeded to spend the next two hours intermittently watching “The Bachelor” finale (because, well, it was important), and researching likeminded individuals who have found success in the full-time travel and travel blogging world. And as I listened to the Ted Talk, and did the research, my heart became enlivened and whole with possibility as I evaluated my strengths, values, and experiences. Because when I put it all together, I felt like my future just made sense, without even knowing it yet. I felt like I had what it takes, and that, excuse the cheesy expression, “the world is my oyster.” And in all of that, of course, I recognized my privilege and luck to be able to feel this way, and to have had experiences that have drawn me towards this. This is what went through my mind;

1) Strengths; I am strong, and I relate well to people. People open up to me and tell me their deepest feelings, and I can make them feel comfortable and loved. Empathy. These qualities made me feel like if I choose to travel, stay put, or anything in between, kindness and relating to people could carry me through. I then thought about my skills; amateur writing, taking pictures, childcare, cooking, and making any place I move to home. Leadership also takes a big place in my heart; I enjoy mentoring, speaking, and helping other people; heck, that’s what I have chosen as a career in Human Services! I want to make positive social change, and experience the world while doing it. 

2) Values; Like I mentioned above, I want to help people. Kindness and empathy are held dear to my heart, and I always wish to live by following my heart, and happiness. I value genuine connection. 

3) Experiences; The first thing I thought of was travel, of course. Whether studying abroad, learning Chinese and performing in a traditional Chinese poem reading competition, staying at a Buddhist Monastery for a week, Au Pairing in a village outside of Paris, trekking through the Sacred Valley in Peru, teaching developmentally disabled adults in Costa Rica and learning about environmental sustainability, waking up to see the sunrise over the Southern Alps in New Zealand and so many more...all of these travel experiences have defined who I am and what makes me the most confident and happy. Actually, I don’t feel like “travel” covers it, perhaps, “ways of living.” Because to me, “travel” means short term vacations, but what I enjoy the most is cultural exchange and experience. I have also had experience as a mentor, childcare provider, advocate for social justice, student in Human Services, sister, girlfriend, and friend. All of these define me. 

All of this self exploration wasn’t to tell myself “Hey Laura, you’re pretty cool.” No. This was to connect the dots of my life, who I am, and how I can translate it into a way of living. And something clicked. I can write, take pictures, connect with people, lead, help, and travel...all at the same time as hopefully (in my dreams) making a living of some sort. Whether that means travel blogging to the point of making money, running some sort of online business, writing books or travel guides, freelancing for a company or a wonderful job that sends me around the world (that would be a miracle), or even just making my way around the globe with work exchanges, racking up different life paths and experiences along the way like some of the full-time travelers I’ve seen. Or a mix of it all! And even if my future doesn’t look like this, it can be what I choose based upon who I am. Maybe I find that getting a Master’s degree, and working in a nonprofit, or in policy as a Social Worker is my ultimate dream. And maybe, I can find a niche that allows me to do it all. But no matter what I end up doing, I know that I hopefully have decades to try everything; all the while making sure I can support myself, and live a full life. 

So I will keep doing research; satisfying my Wanderlust nature of adventure for now, practicing writing and finding my voice, figuring out what is next, and dreaming how my life can be filled with love and happiness and peace. 

My first step is hopefully to take a job in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on a 3 mile island; let’s see where I go from there :) Who’s with me?

[piratefalls]

posting because my friend @ampersandy doesn’t have facebook anymore.

this is what i took from my experience at my local women’s march.

--

When I debated going back to college – a luxury I am lucky to have, especially with the knowledge that I will not be accruing new debt – I struggled with where I wanted my education to go. I had no idea what area of study I wanted to fall in, having too many interests that rarely intersect to decide on just one department. I applied anyway, knowing that at least being accepted gave me more options than I had as someone on the outside looking in. Most of the classes I was interested in were full by the time I was allowed to register, and one of the only classes left that I had any interest in was a Gender and Women’s Studies course titled: “Queer Lives, Queer Politics.”

After yesterday, I don’t believe that this was in any way a coincidence.

All semester long I learned about power structures, both social and legislative, that put certain groups of people at a disadvantage the further they are from that power source. That power source, generally speaking, is a white, able-bodied, straight, cisgender male. Are you a person of color? Take a step back. Are you employed? If you are, stay put. If not, take a step back. Are you poor? Take another step back. Are you disabled? How’s your access to healthcare? Higher education? Take a step back for every one of these things you do not have at your fingertips. That is your relationship to power and the people who have the most influence. I want to make this post, and my experience at yesterday’s Women’s March on Champaign-Urbana, about those power structures.

Yesterday, I stood in a muddy park on an unseasonably warm, beautiful January afternoon, surrounded by women of color, of different ability, of different socioeconomic status, of varying levels of education, women who are transgender, and I listened. I was given a reminder that I desperately needed.

This is about more than just fair wages, but I want to break something down here really quick. I know everyone gets tired of hearing the phrase: “for every dollar that a man makes, a woman makes $0.79.” This is both true and misleading. For every dollar that a man makes, a woman does make less. The year after President Obama signed the Lily Ledbetter Fair Pay Restoration Act (2010), the statistics broke down as follows:

White men: 100 Black men: 74.5 Hispanic men: 65.9 White women: 80.5 Black women: 69.6 Hispanic women: 59.8

Wage discretion is real, but it is more real for people of color than it is for me.

This is about more than just sexual assault and rape. Now, if you know me at all, you know that violence against women is an issue I hold close to my heart, for reasons that don’t need to be rehashed here. But when we think about sexual assault and rape, what is the kind of person who comes to mind when you think of a victim? If you pay attention to the media at all, you probably imagine a white woman in her 20s. What they don’t tell you is that while 80% of all victims are white, minorities are somewhat more likely to be attacked. This breaks down as follows:

All: 17.6% (approx. 1 in 5) White: 17.7% Black: 18.8% Asian/Pacific Islander: 6.8% American Indian/Alaskan: 34.1% Mixed Race: 24.4%

And that doesn’t even include rape and sexual assault committed against men. Yes, women can be rapists too. According to a 2002 NCVS report, one in every eight rape victims were male. When we have a conversation about sexual assault and what needs to be done to end rape culture, we must include ALL victims, not just women. This also does not include rape and sexual assault committed against members of the trans community, which most studies reveal a whopping 50% will experience sexual violence at some point in their lifetime.

This is about more than reproductive rights. This is about access to life-saving healthcare. Viagra and vasectomies are covered by insurance plans, and no one bats an eye. When women want access to birth control, suddenly everyone is in a tizzy. You see what I’m getting at here? Dudes want to prevent pregnancy and that’s fine, but when we want to take control of our ability to get pregnant, suddenly we’re making irrational choices and need the government to intervene. Never mind the fact that the pill is not prescribed SOLELY to prevent pregnancy, but is also used in treatments for endometriosis, PCOS, and adult acne.

Also, please do actual research on Planned Parenthood, because they really are an incredible organization that provides sex education, whose goal is to reduce teen pregnancy through education, and provide women – a good portion of whom are low income and cannot afford hospital visits – with quality preventative healthcare like pap smears, mammograms, cancer screenings, and STD testing. If you can’t do it right now, that’s fine. In the meantime, let me give you a short primer: taxpayer money does not pay for abortions because Title X exists, abortions are 3% of their total services, and someone getting an abortion is none of your damn business anyway.

This is about more than just an Electoral College-elected leader we feel does not represent us. Or, at least, represents some of us. “How did this happen?” we kept asking ourselves on November 9. “Aren’t we better than this?” I thought we were, too. But, again, that’s my privilege speaking.

However – and this is something I find incredibly interesting – the exit polls of this most recent election tell a very interesting story. Most of the people I saw on Facebook after the election who were angry, or saddened, or just lamenting the fact that we’d elected probably the least qualified individual in recent history to our highest government position, were predominantly white. You want to know who put him in office? Predominantly white people. Exit polls in CNN show that 62% of white men and 52% of white women voted for Trump, with only 7% and 5% voting for neither candidate or not voting at all, respectively. Everyone else – black men and women, Latino men and Latina women, and other minority groups – overwhelmingly voted Clinton or didn’t vote for either/vote at all. I’m still trying to parse how I feel about this one, honestly, but I’m sure I’ll let you guys know when I figure it out.

I wanted to believe that we were better than a person who sought to divide us under the guise of making this country great again. America is, and can be, great, despite the fact that its history has not always been great. I know, I know, “We weren’t part of slavery, so why do I still have to defend myself against it? I didn’t kill all those Native Americans when Columbus sailed the ocean blue!”

First of all, DUH. You were born in 1993. This is hardly something I can put solely on your shoulders. BUT - and this is the part we struggle with - these terrible things ARE part of this country’s history, and we DO have to own that. Do we have to be proud of it? No. In fact, I’d encourage you to not be proud of it. However, as a historical moment, are we not supposed to learn from it? Are we not meant to arm ourselves with information so that we do not repeat what’s been done? That is why these conversations still take place: because we keep forgetting.

What this is about is togetherness. This is about recognizing where your place is in this world and using it in whatever way you can to lift up those who are not as fortunate as you. This is about the importance of mobilization. It is about feminism that is not limited to just white women, but is inclusive of all people regardless of gender expression, sexual orientation, race, creed, socioeconomic status, and physical ability. This is about the importance of knowing when to speak and when to sit down and listen; the importance of me, as a white woman, knowing my place at a table that is not designed to make me feel comfortable, or congratulate me for finally catching up with everyone else, but rather teach me how I can be better even if it involves hearing hard truths. My job, as a white woman, is to listen, to get educated, and to amplify the voices of women and men throughout history that our textbooks have silenced for far too long.

This is about learning the meaning of true ally-ship, that not all things are about you, but are about others and how you can do something that benefits them. Being an ally is hard work, and it’s supposed to be. We must not let our sisters be swept aside because of their skin, or their queerness, or their religion or ability or the life she chooses to lead. We must embrace them, encourage them, raise their voices when they are not being heard. True equality cannot be achieved until we are ALL equal players on the same field, in all facets of life, status, and government. We do not yet have these things.

Being brave is not about convenience. Being brave means stepping up to the plate even when it’s hard, when there’s nothing in it for you, when it scares you. Being brave is a lot of things, but it has never been, nor will it ever be, easy. I will be the first to admit that I have not always been brave. But I am going to try. I’m going to get more involved. I’m going to be a voice, a mouthpiece for other women who need to be heard much more than I do.

Whether you believe it or not, as a white individual, you ARE privileged. Having the luxury of not noticing that privilege is something women of color, trans women, poor women, and disabled women do not have.

At the end of all of this, all I’m asking is that you think about where you stand in this world, and the power you hold simply by existing. Have you ever gone to sleep wondering where your next meal will come from? Have you ever gone to sleep cold because you couldn’t pay your bills? Have you ever missed out on important moments in your kid’s lives because you had to work to make sure they were fed? Have you ever been followed around in a shopping mall because someone decided that YOU were the sketchy person they needed to police that day? If you haven’t experienced these things, you might be privileged.

The question is: what will you do with it?

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Jason O’Toole,

is a Rhylsing Award nominated poet, musician, and elder advocate. He is the author of two poetry collections published by the Red Salon, Spear of Stars (2018) and Soulless Heavens (2019). Recent work has appeared in Nixes Mate Review, The Scrib Arts Journal, The Wild Word, and Vita Brevis.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

From a young age, poetry has been my way of sharing thoughts and observations that could not otherwise be easily introduced into conversation. As an adult, it’s also how I process trauma and grief, from surviving shoot-outs and seeing horrible events at work, to losing contact with my children in the wake of a divorce. I don’t want to self-obsess and start every poem with “I” though and many of my current poems tell stories about the down-and-out people I encounter throughout my day, whether an addict waiting for her dealer behind a building or a disabled vet whose family never visit.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

When I entered 4th grade I had a teacher at the Albany Academy named Mrs. Everett. She was from England and “old school” in the best way. We were given short poems to memorize and recite each week such as Carl Sandberg’s “The Fog.” If we got our assignments done, she let us read books from her library, which contained classics such as Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.

My family had shelves full of books. My brother and I recognized that these contained the secret to the mystical power that adults had over us. He got started on the science books, and I started reading the philosophy and poetry. I didn’t always understand what I was reading but they felt familiar to me somehow. I kept a dictionary on hand to look up the meaning of words. The first poets that I recall relating best to were e.e. cummings, T.S. Eliot, William Butler Yeats, and A.E. Housman. I also discovered William S. Burroughs way too young.

2.1. Why did you find yourself relating best to “  e.e. cummings, T.S. Eliot, William Butler Yeats, and A.E. Housman.” ?

The accessible avant-gardist e. e. cummings appealed to me as his poems were stripped down to the bone yet impactful and visually appealing. His playful, off-label use of syntax and made-up words opened up possibilities for me as a kid writing my first non-rhyming poems.

T.S Eliot was another poet that every college educated family had hanging around on their shelves. The Waste Land gave me a road map for leaving the 20th Century. It didn’t go anywhere especially good, but how could it. “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”

William Butler Yeats was one of the greatest magickal minds of his time. I didn’t realize this on my first reading of his poems as his occult history was almost entirely glossed over by the academics. As a kid I knew there was something pagan and exciting lurking behind the verse. I also enjoyed reading the Irish folklore he and Lady Gregory preserved. Later I would learn of his run ins with Aleister Crowley and that added to the allure.

A.E. Housman’s A Shropshire Lad was written with the gloomy adolescent male in mind. I memorized several of the poems and drew cartoons to go along with them. When The Smiths came on the scene, I immediately connected with the lyrics on the Hatful of Hollow ep which seemed to have been spawned from a similar maudlin mind.

2.2. Why did you discover “William S. Burroughs way too young”?

My grandparents had friends, Vincent and Brita, who were painters who also owned an enviable art collection which included a Picasso, purchased for half-nothing before he was famous. I would sit and read in their library, and of course the title Naked Lunch jumped out at me. I was in middle school at the time. Maybe 5th grade? The strangest fiction I had read prior to this was Madeleine L’Engle’s Time Quintet and Ursla K. Le Guin’s The Lathe of Heaven. I didn’t quite know what the hell was happening in it, but it was filthy and funny. I was hooked and read almost everything Burroughs wrote before the age of 16. I enjoyed making collage and cut-ups, some of which I published in zines I made with Sam McPheeters, and during high school, Burroughs was one of my main influences along with The Situationists International, Dr. Anton LaVey, and The Church of Subgenius in my visual art, comics, poetry and prose.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

In my early teens, I’d gone on my own to hear Allen Ginsberg and Anne Waldman read, and having read Burroughs, Kerouac, Corso and others associated with them, knew that I could learn a lot from the Beats. I also knew that I would have to find my own voice. I was in absolutely no rush to do so. Though I have contributed lyrics and vocals on several underground recordings of punk and experimental music and edited Situationist and Punk zines and an academic journal (Dialectical Anthropology) I did not start seriously seeking publication of my poems until 2018. Now I am one of the older poets!

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I never know when I will be struck by the need to write a poem or story. Almost none of my poems are planned. I don’t sit down and say, “I’m going to bang out a poem about a seagull.” I might overhear a phrase in conversation, read a terrible on-line review, or have a traumatic memory resurface. I always keep a notebook on me so I can jot down whatever strikes me as worth recording. Some of these notes wind their way into poems.

Less often I will write short stories, essays, or tinker with one of my novels-in-progress. I find that speculative fiction allows me to hide real stories and people (from my work as an investigator) in plain sight and process some of my worst experiences.

5. What motivates you to write?

Poets and authors have helped me make sense of being human better than any church ever could. I hope I can help others unravel some of the mysteries, complexities and inanities of existence. For some of us, it’s a matter of survival – finding a reason to stay sober, make less terrible choices, and get through another day.

6. What is your work ethic?

Many people complain that they have no time to write. I do my best not to have unmet obligations hanging over me. I pay my bills, get the laundry done, never leave a dish in the sink. I may find other reasons to procrastinate, but at least I won’t waste time worrying about daily chores and it’s easier to write with a clean house.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I feel a distinct kinship with certain poets and authors. There is a lineage that exists for writers akin to the lineages in religious orders, martial arts schools or royalty. There are poets I read in my teens and twenties who I abhor now, such as Bukowski. I still read him now and again, perhaps as a reminder of what not to be. As for my own tribe, I’ll read Corso and then follow the stream back to Shelley who defined “the pain of bliss” that both poets articulated. I’ll jump from Ignatow’s mountains and bagels, to Williams, “No ideas but in things” to Whitman’s sacred bodies, and to teenage rebel Rimbaud, and then back to where I find – myself.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

Juleigh Howard-Hobson is a fellow avant-garde traditionalist. Unlike most modern poets, she is also a formalist. Despite poems written in form not being in style, she is prolifically published and has earned awards and several important nominations. She’s also published fiction and non-fiction, all while living off the grid and running a small family farm in the Pacific Northwest. As one of my mentors, Juleigh has been generous with her time and is always willing to share calls for submissions and her extensive knowledge of the small presses and poetry journals.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I am a fair guitar player, have managed to sell some of my art in galley shows, and apparently my singing is okay for what it is, but poetry is the one thing I feel I have the ability to be “the best” at if I focus more of my energy on reading, appreciating and writing poetry. It’s sometimes a solitary exercise, but there is a vibrant community out there as well. Now that I’ve been sober for three years and am not a resentment machine, I can get along fairly well with other poets and maybe even be an asset to the community.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

I can only answer how one might become a writer like myself. There are many paths, and some are surely more lucrative than my own. First you must be a reader. I don’t trust poets who don’t read other poets. I believe they are only taking selfies with words.

Secondly, you must be a listener and understand that listening isn’t the opposite of talking. It’s an active role. Be a semiotician and try to understand why people are saying what they are saying. Why are they choosing certain words over others? Pay attention to tone of voice, body language and the messages that they are trying to convey with their personal style. This practice of reading the signs that people flash, has the added benefit of anticipating problems, and could save your life!

Get outside, have some adventures, mix it up with people outside of your usual circle, and observe everything. Try to spot the details that others miss. Drive to some town you’ve never been to before and spot what’s different about it from your town. What are the names on the headstones? What are the mom and pop businesses selling? Get out of the car and talk to people and ask them questions and you may learn of local legends, ghost stories, and witch’s graves.

Stay curious and be present in life. Maybe then you’ll have something interesting to tell the rest of us. People love a good story, so you have that in your favour from the start. Go find one.

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

I am contributing spoken word to recordings with Herr Lounge Corps and we should have an album out before long. I am performing and recording stateside with Alec K. Redfearn, a Providence based composer of weird music. I plan on introducing and editing the collected poems of a certain forgotten female poet and occultist. Some of my weird fiction stories have been published by horror presses and I’m slowly working on a couple of novels. I’m gratified that my poems have been published in journals and anthologies around the world, that I’ve been nominated for the Rhysling Award, and that I have more than enough for a third collection when the time is right. People are reading my writing and are reaching out to tell me what it means to them. For me, that means everything.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jason O’Toole Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

[hub-pub-bub]

he saying “it takes a village” may sound hokey but it applies to publishing. I’ve played many roles myself: I’m a writer. I am also a freelance editor and do authenticity reads (also known as sensitivity reads). By profession I’m a production editor (aka managing editor), technically one of the last lines of defense as a book becomes a finished product you find on a shelf. We’re responsible for consistency, clarity, error checks, and making people in-house as well as out-of-house happy, but we’re only one of the cogs in a machine that has input on a book’s content, presentation, and promotion. Prior to the manuscript hitting my desk it goes through the agent, the acquiring editor, the editorial assistant, possibly additional editors, beta readers, and authenticity readers (should the author choose to hire them). The book is then launched to marketing, publicity, and sales teams who attempt to sell it in many ways to many people before it’s a physical object. A book goes through many hands and is seen by many eyes before it hits the shelves.

And that means all those eyes that look at this book during the publishing process have a responsibility to speak up when said product is problematic, when the issues are glaring, when alarms have been signaled.

All those eyes that look at this book during the publishing process have a responsibility to speak up when said product is problematic.

The most recent dust-up over an ill-conceived book has people again asking the question: “Who can/should write what?” That is not the right question to ask. How about: What’s your reasoning and responsibility when choosing to write outside of your own experience? Craft does come into play, but skill is not enough. I agree with Brandon Taylor that empathy is a factor, too. To write a Black character as a white person is not the same as using the “we” narrative voice. To write a transgender character as a cisgender person is not the same as attempting to create a braided essay or tell a story nonlinearly. There are points of structure and personal bias that writers bring to their work. This is also inherent in how we read and critique work. Recognizing that we view certain groups under certain gazes can help editors offer feedback to better deconstruct what’s working and what isn’t, as well as why. We need to acknowledge that craft and empathy go hand in hand before attempting to martyr ourselves as victims of “mobs” when we’re not owning our own failures to spot the issues we’ve created and/or edited.

I’m learning my own lessons as an editor of a short story anthology. The contributors are amazing and ethnically representative; I am humbled and honored by those contributing to the anthology and am reminded of how varied and full the voices are each time I re-read stories to suggest edits.

Among the stories that were submitted to me were two written by abled people that include disabled characters. Where my marginalization (as a woman of color) can help me identify problematic areas, my privilege (as a cishet, abled person) can easily allow me to dismiss it. This is why it’s important for me to listen to and engage with friends and voices in other communities — in this case, voices like Alice Wong who leads the #CripLit chats and the DisVisibility Project, Karrie Higgins who is vocal about disability on her blog and on social media, Vilissa Thompson’s Ramp Your Voice, Keah Brown’s essays on feminism & disability and creation of #DisabledandCute, Alaina Leary’s writing on disability representation on and off screen, the existence of Disability in KidLit, comedian Zach Anner’s videos on YouTube reflecting how inaccessible the world is, and Cara Gael O’Regan’s In Sickness + In Health podcast. Because of their work and the work of so many others I had sources that helped me determine something was off in these stories.

We Need Diverse Books, But We Also Need Diverse Reviewers How to approach criticism in the era of Trump electricliterature.com

I asked, “What is the reason for this (disabled) character in this piece?” As in, are they there to serve the abled protagonist? Are they someone you still don’t have a hold on yet? What gaze are you viewing them through and why? By asking this question I hoped to spark the understanding that while the story was good, these particular characters weren’t working as written. These writers are not bad writers, nor are they bad people. Mistakes get made and both sides can catch them sooner rather than later. And when we can’t catch them in time or at all, the next step is to acknowledge this and do better — and sometimes, that means cutting an incompletely thought-out character or story, rather than trying to fix it. In this case the revised stories were scrapped and we decided on other ones. Even if it meant one less story in the anthology, I had to stand by this. As editors that is our job.

I could’ve done things better as an editor. I shouldn’t have waited as long as I did to be firm about my concerns. I hired authenticity readers after revisions and should’ve hired them for that first draft. The readers noted things that I as an abled woman couldn’t catch, specific words that I had glossed over. This more direct perspective can have more impact with the writer.

The burden of editing is heavy when you’re the only one doing it. My main concern is that I do the authors and their work justice. I want to make sure their voices shine and that their stories feel complete. An editor’s job is not to “push an agenda,” but to help the stories be what they are in full. Our job is not to force our voice but to help clarify the authorial voice. Our job means analyzing what does or does not work (and why). There will inevitably be criticism that is not always boasting but biting. This is writing. This is the profession.

An editor’s job is not to “push an agenda,” but to help the stories be what they are in full.

Do you know what a character (especially a marginalized character) is who isn’t fleshed out? A device. As writer I also have to recognize this. I wrote a story where one of the side characters was a gay man dying of AIDS. He was a representation regularly seen in media, practically a corpse. A friend and reading partner who clearly remembered this moment in recent history, had been a nurse to afflicted friends during this time said to me, “Give him more humanity.” That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t seeing this character as a person. He was a tool in a story I was telling and that wasn’t fair to him or the reader or the community I was portraying. I was filling a trope dictated by my own ignorance.

If the writer cannot see these issues, then we as editors (and as agents, friends, and readers) can help. The ultimate responsibility always falls on the creator, but the many people who see the book on its way to publication are culpable too. We’re here to aid writers, and in a sense that does mean protecting them. But protecting the writer also means ensuring the work works. Understandably editors (and agents) are “worried about their clients.” We’re worried about how things may be taken or dissected. I do wonder, though, if this concern stems more from the desire to protect the privileged masses over the marginalized ones. This can also be part of the inability (or unwillingness) to make the effort required to see inclusivity and parity come to fruition. It means that someone, possibly those of us in a position of power, will be uncomfortable and need to face that discomfort. Senior editor Kate Sullivan at Delacorte wrote about the need for editors to “check ourselves.” Checking ourselves includes not prioritizing the white gaze; analyzing the prose at a micro not just macro level; and discerning why editors don’t connect with marginalized voices and do connect with white, socioeconomically well off, cishet ones. To not do any of these things under the guise of “protecting” the writer or more so enhancing the work is a failure on our part.

An editor has the power to make sure these issues don’t see the light of day. An authenticity reader does not have this power or say, and shouldn’t be the only line of defense. Even with our commentary, our pleas, our well-crafted letters saying how harmful this portrayal is there can always be a rebuttal from the author, a perceived “workaround,” a way to fix something that can and has reduced people to facile creations, almost marionettes for a particular gaze. As my friend said, Give us more humanity.

Understandably editors (and agents) are “worried about their clients.” I do wonder, though, if this concern stems more from the desire to protect the privileged masses over the marginalized ones.

If we’re making the same mistake when it comes to bad representation, when it comes to the consistent issues brought up by marginalized communities, it’s because we’re not listening. It’s because the wealth of information available at our fingertips, often for free and much of it online, is not something we’re taking the time to digest. We can ask authors all day long to become more informed, but how does that help progress within the industry if those of us representing them do not do the same, or do so only when inclined and shamed? For those of us in the publishing profession, are we listening and learning or posturing? Is commerce more important than community? Are we also uplifting unheard voices to find their stories and helping them start and maintain their careers? There are a lot of questions we should be asking. Not about what we have the “right” to publish; that demeans those continually fighting for the right to live and exist, to have equality on a daily basis. What we (especially editors) should be asking is: Who’s responsible for where we are now, and how will we see actual change?

[lifelessonsfromacynic]

Fuck Disability

The American Disability Act defines disability as such:

The presence of a sensory, mental or physical impairment, whether temporary or permanent, that:

Has a substantially limiting effect on the individual’s ability to perform one or more major life activities; and,

Is medically cognizable or diagnosable, exists as a record or history, or the person is perceived to have an impairment

Cancer is a disability. And yeah I don’t have cancer right now, but you know what else is a disability, regardless of whether you agree or not, my fucking height, or lackthereof.

1. It’s a physical Impairment

2. It has substantially limiting effect on my ability to perform major life activities

3. It’s medically cognizable, exists as a record and is easily perceived as an impairment.

Fucking case in point.

And yeah okay, I’m not “Disabled-disabled” which is probably what most people think when I say I’m disabled. Yeah, I have the general use of the majority of my body parts. But a person with dwarfism has general use of their body parts and society generally considers them disabled. Just because my body parts are generally proportional to the rest of my body, doesn’t mean that I’m not disabled. The point is that disability isn’t a one-sized fits all package; it comes in just as many forms as people do.

It took me a long time to be able to call myself disabled, because there is a negative stigma when it comes to disability. So to admit that I have a disability took a lot of courage, and doing so gave me an entirely new perspective on life. I can now recognize how fucking negative people view disabilities, how far people go to avoid even thinking about it, and how hesitant people are to accommodate disability, even the people you thought were supposed to support you no matter what.

The reason it’s taken me this long to call myself disabled is because I was never educated on the issue. My parents did every thing they could to make me average sized after my treatment when I was younger, and when my body denied me that privilege, they played ignorant to the fact that my height is a disability. They went on living as if I was average-sized, and didn’t provide any accommodations, and thus I grew up thinking that 1. Something was wrong with being disabled and 2. I can’t and never will be disabled because I can do anything a “normal person” can do, just differently. 

But that right there is the fucking point! “NORMAL PEOPLE” Like that’s all I fucking talked about as a kid. 

I can do anything a “normal person” can do because I have control of all my body parts! 

And yet, I couldn’t. 

I couldn’t go to school without people staring at me and talking about me behind my back.

I couldn’t go out in public wearing “age appropriate” clothing without people assuming I was trying to act older than I was.

I couldn’t pay for things I wanted without people making comments like “Aw, she’s so grown up” when I actually was.

After a certain point, I couldn’t find age appropriate clothing in my size or style, especially now. I had to, and have to settle for clothing that is either juvenile, or far too long for me, making me appear even shorter than I actually am.

I can’t find professional style suits or shoes in my size in any store, and have to pay more money to special order items.

I always assumed people could never have intimate feelings for me because they’d be afraid of society assuming they were pedophiles.

I didn’t “fully develop” as a women until just a few years ago, and technically my medical standards, I still haven’t.

It takes me an extra 30+ min to cook, bake, etc because most counters are about my height and thus I have to continually drag a stool back and forth between counters, stoves, ovens, and cupboards.

When looking for housing, I have to make sure there’s enough low-cupboard space in order to put the essential materials at a place I can reach so when I feel like being lazy, I don’t absolutely have to go out of my way to make food.

I have to make sure ovens and microwaves are at “reasonable” levels in order to use them.

I can’t just run to the store to get beer without it being a huge ordeal for everyone involved.

Desks and office chairs never fit me, are never ergonomic enough for me, and constantly give me back and neck pain.

Speaking of neck pain, I always have to look up when I’m talking to people, so I’m always in constant pain.

And I am required to pay into a retirement fund that I will never fucking see because people with disabilities tend to live less. And you want to know why people with disabilities tend to fucking die sooner? Because no body gives a shit enough to make life any easier for anyone other than Average-Sized-Able Bodied people.

I didn’t mean for this to be a list of “woe me,” which I suppose that’s what it could be seen as, sure. What the purpose of this is to educate you and help you become more aware on disability. Visible disabilities like cerebral palsy, autism, people in wheel-chairs, or people with  disfigured limbs are not the only disabilities; disabilities can also be having a slight difference that makes living life just that much more struggled, or even completely invisible. It isn't up to you to decide if someone's life is different or difficult enough to have a disability.

[agosnesrerose]

My Mom and I: Mothers & Daughters at the Women’s March on Washington

“We’ve never done anything like this before,” my mom told me on Friday evening, as we put the finishing touches on our signs for the Women’s March on Washington. She was talking both about our going to the march together, and each of us protesting for the first time. My mom, a sixty-two year old insurance agent and mother to myself and two stepchildren, told me that she’d been on the younger side of the Baby Boomer generation, just turning eighteen in the early 1970s, when the Vietnam War and the many protests against it were subsiding.

I’d marched down to Zuccotti Park as part of Occupy Wall Street in the fall of 2011, and attended various gatherings in Washington Square Park since the election, but had always felt more like an observer than a participant. I told her tomorrow felt like my fight, my chance to show up for my rights and the rights of my immigrant, LGBTQ, Black, Asian, and Latinx friends. Shortly after, my grandmother, born just three years after the 19th Amendment was passed, called and my mother conveniently left the March and our participation in it out of the conversation, for fear that it would worry her.

When we arrived in Washington D.C. on Saturday morning, the energy was electric. As throngs of people marched from RFK Stadium through the streets, residents came out of their houses, applauding us and welcoming us to D.C. The volunteers and police directing us were friendly and enthusiastic, as were the sanitation workers and truck drivers that honked as they past. A woman with a portable speaker, turntable and mixer guided us, blasting Al Green and The Supremes. My mom was transfixed on the pink pussy hats and exclaiming how badly she wanted one.

While the crowd felt large, there was still space to maneuver around the sidewalks and streets. But, as we crested Capitol Hill, it was clear that we hadn’t seen anything close to a crowd yet. People were streaming in from every street and the intersection at 3rd St SW and Independence Ave, where the March was scheduled to begin, was impassable. We made our way, to the National Mall instead, trying amongst a body-to-body wall of people to inch our way closer to 4th St SW, so that we could glimpse the JumboTron showing the various speakers of the day.

“That was my mom’s thing. Flip it over for the next person.”

Along the way we met Michelle and Laura, another mother-daughter duo who had traveled from New Jersey to march. Laura, 20, was also a first-time marcher and she confessed to me that she was there for her mother, who had fought for her in high school, when her teachers had refused to address her ADD. “She puts a lot of work in for me and doesn’t get the recognition for it,” Laura said, “Not that guys can’t do the stuff that women do, but I feel like a lot of women are constantly devalued for their work as moms.” Michelle told us that she had been at the No Nukes concert protest in 1979 in Battery Park City, and that all she could think about today was the fact that her mother, who passed away four years ago, was there with them. “She was seriously bad ass—she was born before women had the right to vote. She would have gotten this, this would have meant a lot to her. Nana’s with us. She was a fiery lady.” Towards the end of our chat, Michelle and Laura spotted a tails up penny on the ground; my mom and I joked that they should pick it up for good luck, but Laura reached down, flipped it over to the heads side, and left it on the ground instead. “That was my mom’s thing,” Michelle explained, “Flip it over for the next person.”

By this point, the crowd was growing impatient, chanting “Ready to march! Ready to march!” It was almost 2pm, well past the 1pm start time that had been set by the organizers. Rumors were circulating around the crowd that there was nowhere to march; the route that organizers had intended to take, eastward along Independence Avenue and then up 14th St to the White House, was flooded with people and at a complete standstill. Squashed between the Capitol Building and the Washington Monument, I assured my mom, who was also growing impatient for action, that this was the march: our bodies in this space was just as powerful a statement as moving along Independence Avenue.

If they lost, no woman won

As we began talking to the equally impatient around us, we met Susan and her 23-year-old daughter Juliette. Susan, a certified nurse and midwife explained that she had been on her first picket line at three years old, with her aunt who was on strike from a hospital in New York. “It was important for me to bring my daughter, because I had memories of my mother, of us, marching on Washington against the Vietnam War together,” she explained. Susan told us that she was there to protect reproductive and immigrant rights, especially for her low-income and undocumented patients. Juliette told me it was her first protest too, and added that she was there for her trans friends and POC friends. I heard echoes of the conversation I’d had with my mom the evening before. Our mother’s generation was mainly focused on women’s rights, but Juliette and I, and even the Women’s March organizers (albeit late in the game) had expanded this agenda, by recognizing that women’s rights had to explicitly and specifically include POC women, native women, LGBTQIA women, immigrant women, and women with disabilities. If they lost, no woman won. And yet, I was starkly aware in that moment that the majority of the women around me were cis white women. I chose and am choosing to see this optimistically; that cis white women—myself included—are waking up to their privilege and changing their silence into action, not only on January 21st, but in the months and years to come.

As our conversation ended, people began to flow north, away from the March’s starting point and designated route. “We’re going to the White House! Take whatever streets you can!” we heard one woman exclaim. I was hesitant, but, by this point my mom was whistling and shouting, “We’re coming for you!”. Together we followed the flood of people now walking up 4th, 6th, 7th, 9th, 12th, and 14th St toward Pennsylvania Avenue. A woman in her seventies stood on a stack of barricades, screaming “Tell me what democracy looks like!” with tears in her eyes. A young woman climbed a lamppost and swung from side to side as a raging “Whose House? Our House!” chant emerged from her.

I looked at my mom and we were both tearing up; we climbed up on a larger planter along Pennsylvania Avenue and for the first time, we were able to see the enormity of the crowds. From Pennsylvania Avenue, each north-south street was packed with bodies and blanketed in a sea of pink down to Independence Avenue and all the way to C St. To our left, crowds were gathering around Trump International and we heard loud boo’ing; to our right crowds were fighting the bottleneck at 14th St, trying to continue north to the White House. My mom and I got as close as we could, glimpsing the building from across the South Lawn. Yet again, rumors circulated back to us that the route was barricaded and it wasn’t possible to get much further.

today we had met women who were passing down their voice, their understanding that their presence is powerful

As we turned back, walking to RFK Stadium and our respective bus, people were still flooding towards the White House from all directions. We hurried to make our bus in time for its 4pm departure and I began to think about the legacy of what women hand down to their daughters. We often think of mothers handing down their physical features to their daughters, giving a set of fancy china, a favorite recipe, maybe a wedding dress. But today we had met women who were passing down their voice, their understanding that their presence is powerful, that their activism as women—as people—matters. They were women who understood that movement forward required reaching back and drawing upon the legacy of their mothers—whether to change the story that they had been given or expand upon it to include the voices of others.

After six hours of standing and shuffling, marching and chanting, my mom and talked about what’s next on the bus ride home. Where do we go from here, as women who are deeply concerned about our rights and the rights of our friends and family? While marching is empowering, it doesn’t change anything, and as first-time activists, how do we continue to make sure our voices are heard? That our needs are considered by those we elect to represent us? I saw a renewed sense of power and purpose in my mom as she talked about calling members of Congress and state Representatives, and finding resources for continued action that could be distributed to the other women on our bus. On Sunday, I asked her if she was going to tell my grandmother that we went to the March. “I told her today” she replied, “She was impressed by us.”

Suggested Post-March Resources:

indivisibleguide.com

100daysofresistance.org

swingleft.org

Women’s March 10 actions / 100 days

All photos courtesy of the author.

from Art21 Magazine http://ift.tt/2jj16rm

http://ift.tt/2j7012D