Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Tonight, I want to talk about Deconstruction (how sweet it is). And how Deconstruction is a tool that can help us lead ourselves towards self-discovery and liberation. ( I am glad that I have gotten to the point where I can start a sentence with and). I want to educate tonight--not teach a lesson-but educate, inform, and inspire. Let's look at the word "civilized." What does it mean? And what are we inferring when we call something "civilized"? What is a civilized nation? The "rules of civilization." Often people think of Western Civilization, and ideas of advancement and culture. The word civil means peace.....hence, Civilization... If you think of this society that we live in--the United States--in that context--what is civil-ized about it? And when we uphold it as a beakon of civilization--or when we adhere to the standards and codes of civilization, what are we upholding? What is it that we have invested or that we are trying to protect when defend or adhere to the way in which this society operates?
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
After viewing a threat on www.feministe.us about racism, I decided to blog one of my own experiences with race at Purdue. One of my very first experiences-not with racism, but with the unprogressiveness that is inherently characteristic of Purdue. Alas, it speaks quite a bit more as well to where we have to go as Afr0-Americans in order to develop our integrity to its fullest extent.
In my first class here at Purdue, American Studies 601, we, unfortunately, partook of Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn which I have no interests in and, in my estimation, is wholly given too much attention as a piece of literature. I have no interests in reading about some little boy floating down a river on a raft.
With this in mind, I went into this (what turned out to be) three week discussion concerning the book prepared for the longhaul of boredom. However, what it turned into was a three week discussion of the word Nigger.
Now, at first, I didn't say much at all--as I have nothing to say really about Huckleberry Finn and the words that Twain uses in the book matter very little to me because of that. However, the situation developed on perhaps the third of fourth class session spent on this book that other Blacks in the class were becoming sensitive to the discussion-mind you at this point in time the word nigger had been uttered at least three times out of most of the mouths in that room.
What happened next was an attempt at censorship--which wasn't so much a "Please, could we refrain from using that word," but a verbal beating of the people in the class (white) who were using the term.
Kurt, I don't think he will mind me using his name-- was telling about the way in which he addressed the usage of the word when he previously had taught the book--having taught High School English for about twenty years perhaps. At this point, one of my fellow black classmates lit into him and verbally chastised him for using the word--in a very authoritative and abusive manner. Alas, after this discussion continued for a little while--a couple of my classmates--one white girl (Stacy) and one jewish girl broke into tears-- I suppose feeling something towards white guilt. Mhm. Well, ok, whatever. But alas, I didn't think it was wholly progressive to censor anything-- and as the situation became such that people were afraid to utter the word in the class-- I dared to utter it. And not only utter it-- but I began to ask my fellow black classmates--why would you attempt to censor this word? I pointed them in the direction of the lines of Sonia Sanchez's poem "Nigger you say? That word ain't shit to me man.... I will even spell it for you-- N-I-G-G-E-R. You are way behind the set....."
And alas, not only that--but being a writer I know the power of words--but I wanted to point to them that it was not good or productive to spend one's time trying to ask white people to not call you a nigger. I think it is absolutely awful, amazing, and ridiculous that the rhetoric coming out of the Black community in terms of this power structure and the ways in which they are caught in it is "You can shoot me in the streets, you can disenfranchise me, you can determine where I can and cannot work and can and cannot live, but please oh please don't call me a Nigger." My repsonse is that as long as you continue to allow these people to walk over you---you are the Nigger. When Black people as a whole--not even thinking about this country---come into their Integrity and their Self-Respect and start to take control of their own lives and start demanding that the power structure deal with them on their own terms....then that will be a great day.
As an afterthought, they say that the man that ran the cotton used to say of my great great grandfather , when he would take his cotton to the market to sell- "You hurry up and you get Morgan Goodson out of here, and you make sure his accounts is right, because he is a crazy nigger and you dont know just what he might do." I think that was quite a good thing.
In my first class here at Purdue, American Studies 601, we, unfortunately, partook of Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn which I have no interests in and, in my estimation, is wholly given too much attention as a piece of literature. I have no interests in reading about some little boy floating down a river on a raft.
With this in mind, I went into this (what turned out to be) three week discussion concerning the book prepared for the longhaul of boredom. However, what it turned into was a three week discussion of the word Nigger.
Now, at first, I didn't say much at all--as I have nothing to say really about Huckleberry Finn and the words that Twain uses in the book matter very little to me because of that. However, the situation developed on perhaps the third of fourth class session spent on this book that other Blacks in the class were becoming sensitive to the discussion-mind you at this point in time the word nigger had been uttered at least three times out of most of the mouths in that room.
What happened next was an attempt at censorship--which wasn't so much a "Please, could we refrain from using that word," but a verbal beating of the people in the class (white) who were using the term.
Kurt, I don't think he will mind me using his name-- was telling about the way in which he addressed the usage of the word when he previously had taught the book--having taught High School English for about twenty years perhaps. At this point, one of my fellow black classmates lit into him and verbally chastised him for using the word--in a very authoritative and abusive manner. Alas, after this discussion continued for a little while--a couple of my classmates--one white girl (Stacy) and one jewish girl broke into tears-- I suppose feeling something towards white guilt. Mhm. Well, ok, whatever. But alas, I didn't think it was wholly progressive to censor anything-- and as the situation became such that people were afraid to utter the word in the class-- I dared to utter it. And not only utter it-- but I began to ask my fellow black classmates--why would you attempt to censor this word? I pointed them in the direction of the lines of Sonia Sanchez's poem "Nigger you say? That word ain't shit to me man.... I will even spell it for you-- N-I-G-G-E-R. You are way behind the set....."
And alas, not only that--but being a writer I know the power of words--but I wanted to point to them that it was not good or productive to spend one's time trying to ask white people to not call you a nigger. I think it is absolutely awful, amazing, and ridiculous that the rhetoric coming out of the Black community in terms of this power structure and the ways in which they are caught in it is "You can shoot me in the streets, you can disenfranchise me, you can determine where I can and cannot work and can and cannot live, but please oh please don't call me a Nigger." My repsonse is that as long as you continue to allow these people to walk over you---you are the Nigger. When Black people as a whole--not even thinking about this country---come into their Integrity and their Self-Respect and start to take control of their own lives and start demanding that the power structure deal with them on their own terms....then that will be a great day.
As an afterthought, they say that the man that ran the cotton used to say of my great great grandfather , when he would take his cotton to the market to sell- "You hurry up and you get Morgan Goodson out of here, and you make sure his accounts is right, because he is a crazy nigger and you dont know just what he might do." I think that was quite a good thing.
I want to write about my connection to the feminist spirit. Beyond my feminine soul (which bears little marking of the male body which it is in), I am deeply rooted within a strong, woman-centered background. Alongside my matrileneal lineage(hence the fact that I identify myself with my mother's mother's family- I made my father mad once when I told him that I wanted to change my name to DeRamus) I have a direct line of human connection to the great spirits of Audre Lorde and Adrienne Rich (whom I wish to meet- I will get to Chicago AND spend the night with Peter) through Mab Segrest, who is alumna at my Alma Mater and who is the protege of these two spirits. Mab paid me one of the greatest compliments I have ever recieved..... Also, my very real and personal bond with Cella, Dr. Gray, and Greg (also a feminine spirit) form the core of my awareness and consciousness in a wholly political context. They are the lights through which I see.
When I was little, as I rode the bus to school every morning, I used to imagine I saw my ancestors standing outside of the windows waving at me and welcoming me along the way to school each morning. Especially when I went to Autaugaville. Their smiling faces greeted me each morning. Like Alice, I communicate with my ancestors.
This poem is my Mantra. I remember when I first read this poem. I was a sophomore in college and I was sitting in Greg's class (the god of all gods), which was our Justice seminar, and he asked if I would read it. I did--having not read it before, and I loved it. I immediately took it back to my room and called my friend Rebecca who came down and we read it together--and cried and howled over it. It has been one of the most inspiring and defining pieces that I have ever encountered.
June Jordan: Poem About My Rights
http://www.ocf.berkeley.edu/~micmag/issue1/poemaboutmyrights.php
Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can't
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can't do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence;
I could not go and I could not think and i could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can't do what I want to do with my
own
body
and who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if a guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate the he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him and if after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that
he and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I amwhich is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates
what will the evidence look like the proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if after Namibia and if after angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after thatwe lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people ofthe wrong skin on the wrong continent and what in the hell is everybody being so reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so theykilled him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin and wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition andbefore that
it was my father saying I was wrong say that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/aboy and that I should have been lighter skinned andthat I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in otherwords
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the socialworkers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
meI am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of
who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
my self
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and whether it's about walking out at night
or whether it's about the love I feel or
whether it's about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundariesor the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and indisputably single and singular heartI have been raped
be-cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the wrong need the wrong dream
the wrong geographic
the wrong satorial
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I to South africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
cars
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can't tell you who in the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistence
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life
June Jordan: Poem About My Rights
http://www.ocf.berkeley.edu/~micmag/issue1/poemaboutmyrights.php
Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can't
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can't do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence;
I could not go and I could not think and i could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can't do what I want to do with my
own
body
and who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if a guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate the he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him and if after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that
he and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I amwhich is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates
what will the evidence look like the proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if after Namibia and if after angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after thatwe lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people ofthe wrong skin on the wrong continent and what in the hell is everybody being so reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so theykilled him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin and wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition andbefore that
it was my father saying I was wrong say that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/aboy and that I should have been lighter skinned andthat I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in otherwords
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the socialworkers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
meI am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of
who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
my self
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and whether it's about walking out at night
or whether it's about the love I feel or
whether it's about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundariesor the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and indisputably single and singular heartI have been raped
be-cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the wrong need the wrong dream
the wrong geographic
the wrong satorial
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I to South africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
cars
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can't tell you who in the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistence
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life
Monday, April 18, 2005
Yesterday I went to Sophia's birthday party (Zoiya's little girl) and I sat there at the table and was awed and intrigued by some of the things that I saw. Mexicans have long, rich, and beautiful hair. I knew this before, but I will say now that I have a renewed appreciation for it after I observed it yesterday. It is an Indian trait. It put me in mind of my grandmother and her sisters. All of them had long and beautiful hair. My Aunt Earnestine's hair flowed all the way down her back, almost to her thighs, even at eighty years old. When they were younger, the DeRamus girls were something to see. To be a Deramus, one of "them thar things" as they say, was to be something. The Deramuses are a beautiful people. Beautiful, educated, and always presumed to have money. This is not the case. I will continue that thought....
Saturday, April 16, 2005
It is interesting...I am just now thinking about the sucession and continuum of my papers.....my ZitKala Sa paper for little swedish lady--I cant remember her name-- Melissa Holmstead-- turnedinto my thesis on DuBOis--- my archival paper turned into my masters thesis......interesting continuums......
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
To build on my previous thought about preserving my heritage. I need to start writing, seriously and in a sustained manner, about my heritage. It is not just for me, but for the future. For those who will come after me. Others may benefit from it as well. My roots are long and rich and grow strong, they are firmly planted and that is what gives me my sense of self and my understanding of where I am and where I need to be. The many varied aspects to my existence are all steered towards the vortex which is my legacy. My great-great grandmother's face beckons me. Calls out to me-- I must do what I was sent here to do. I have a purpose, I have to fullfil it. when opportunity breaks it is the greatest feeling in the world, however when it is closed and there is no possibility in sight one can dip down into the uttermost despair. There is always light and one must be patient while wanting to see it, and always remember to breathe. The rich iron ore color of skin which is the norm amongst my relatives (the Deramuses, children of John Archie that is, even though attributable to my Goodson forbears) is the wisdom of their souls playing out into their physical bodies. My skin, the wealth of its color, the naturaleness of my hair--are what is instilled in me by my ancestors. My uncle lawrence was darker- his skin was a rich soot color that hinted red- like the soil that grows beautiful crops and that provided harvest for my ancestors and my family. I am swallowed whole by my legacy. I ama left at peace in the knowledge of who I am and what I need to be, sucking the nutrients that sustain me from roots that are firmly planted in the ground.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
It is a nice light rain outside. It feels good. I feel at peace. On days like this and at times like this one--with the air circulating freely,surrounding me and bringing me peace and joy within my body, I feel and try to take myself, in my mind as if I am back at my uncle's house sitting in his gazebo, the rough wood against my skin and the wind against my face as I sit or lie down, transposed. My uncles face was beautiful. And so jovial, he always carried a smile in his eyes and was a most beautiful man. I miss him a lot. I love him very much. I want his spirit to embrace me.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Song from a Broadway show
there's a fine, fine line between a lover and a friend;there's a fine, fine line between reality and pretend;And you never know 'til you reach the top if it was worth the uphill climb. There's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of time. There's a fine, fine line between a fairy tale and a lie; and there's a fine, fine line between "you're wonderful", and "goodbye." I guess if somone doesn't love you back, it isn't such a crime, but there's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of your time. and i don't have the time to waste on you anymore. I dont think that you even know what you're looking for. for my own sanity i've got to close the door and walk away... There's a fine, fine line between together and not. And there's a fine, fine line, between what you wanted and what you got. You gotta go after the things you want while you're still in your prime.. There's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of time.
Personal Journey/ Writing My Soul
It is interesting that as my friendship with Josh ended that I ran into Joshua- on the next day. Fate is a wonderous entity. And that he was partaking in some sort of activism is really quite interesting. It was as if I needed to reconnect with him and hear his soft Louisiana drawl. We really havent hung out since Christmas, but we have had dinner once or twice since then. I am through with Josh. As Cecily says, you need to deal with wonderbread on a need-to basis. It does leave me a bit sad, but I am living and I think I am grounded and at peace where I need to be. Speak the word of the Strange, of the Weird (beautiful Greek and Norweigan words), "Wrong is not my name."
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Tonight I had dinner with the Indonesians..... all of this for the sake of one boy. It is really something how you can be surrounded by people and not want to be there. The conversation was nice, pathetic, but nice. Patti is a bit flaky and smiles a lot. God I wish I were elsewhere. Angela? Alice? Where are you? I am tired of this....and the company is not what I want. I do not see what I want and therefore I don't want anything. To bring up Alice Walker ... "Expect Nothing. Live frugally on surprise..." I have expected too much of people sometimes....I have held the belief that everyone has and should want something to live for.... and should actually give a shit about the world. Ah me, such is life. I will get what I want, come hell or high water. I have the gall, the gumption, and the want to of Joan Crawford and Barbra Streisand combined.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Saturday, April 02, 2005
The Rules
When I first came to Purdue, several of my colleagues informed me of the "rules" and how I must comply with them.
The Rules
I will not comply
with the rules
I will not suffer
the rules will make the world
hard as wood and diabetic
the whipping tree that cannot bleed
Abhor the rules and Iwill dedicate my life to living
freely.....
The Rules
I will not comply
with the rules
I will not suffer
the rules will make the world
hard as wood and diabetic
the whipping tree that cannot bleed
Abhor the rules and Iwill dedicate my life to living
freely.....
Song that I Wrote
You don't know what you feel
You don;t even feel what you know
Just make your existence real
live like the water and flow....
Love is like a creation
the earth is ripe for growth
inspire the blossoms to grow.....
You don;t even feel what you know
Just make your existence real
live like the water and flow....
Love is like a creation
the earth is ripe for growth
inspire the blossoms to grow.....
Friday, April 01, 2005
My aunt just sent me the photos of my great-great grandmother, great-great grandfather and two of their daughters and I am very emotional. I have seen these photographs all of my life, but now they have some kind of affect on me. I have always been in awe ofthem and held them in reverence as I quite well understood the integrity, the beauty, and the spirit of my ancestors and the legacy that they left behind. I want to preserve them and I want to make a collection of all of that which was left behind for my generation to benefit from. From the time I crawled into aunt Earnestine's room after her death and collected the photographs she had stored there, I feel I can't let any part of my heritage out of my hands. I have to preserve it, I have to make sure that they are kept sacred and holy. To my ancestors--Thanks,
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Thoughts WHile Watching the Color Purple for the Umteenth Billionth Time-- With Robert, before, and after.
What would it have taken for Celie to have taken that razor and sliced Mr's throat? Would it have been wrong of her? I hate that word.
One Similarity between Black and Jewish culture is that they are as violent as their white paternity.....
Maybe this film taught me to feel restricted.....more like it it exposed the violence and the vileness that exists within patriarchal systems....including that of the black community.
The violentce of Black Middle Class existence is unbearable.
As her fingers caress the delicate orange taffet on her shoulder......
One Similarity between Black and Jewish culture is that they are as violent as their white paternity.....
Maybe this film taught me to feel restricted.....more like it it exposed the violence and the vileness that exists within patriarchal systems....including that of the black community.
The violentce of Black Middle Class existence is unbearable.
As her fingers caress the delicate orange taffet on her shoulder......
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