They call us now.
Before they drop the bombs.
The phone rings
and someone who knows my first name
calls and says in perfect Arabic
“This is David.”
And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphonies
still smashing around in my head
I think “Do I know any Davids in Gaza?”
They call us now to say
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of war time courtesy.
It doesn’t matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and there are more human lives
packed one against the other
more than any other place on earth
We aren’t trying to kill you.
It doesn’t matter that
you can’t call us back to tell us
the people we claim to want aren’t in your house
that there’s no one here
except you and your children
who were cheering for Argentina
sharing the last loaf of bread for this week
counting candles left in case the power goes out.
It doesn’t matter that you have children.
You live in the wrong place
and now is your chance to run
It doesn’t matter
that 58 seconds isn’t long enough
to find your wedding album
or your son’s favorite blanket
or your daughter’s almost completed college application
or your shoes
or to gather everyone in the house.
It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Running Orders by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
some chill positivity from a 1998 Sesame Street book about the letter F
I really deplore this toxic and regressive culture that promotes the idea of knowledge being invalid if isn’t wrapped in academic jargon. The amount of brilliance I’ve encountered and enrichment I’ve gained from immigrants and those systematically deprived access to elite academic institutions who understand politically precarious situations firsthand, albeit not speaking perfect English, far outweighs whatever an overpriced university textbook can ever teach me.
But these people and their valuable narratives are put on the backburner or neglected altogether, because people fetishize politics as long as its distant, elitist and devoid of emotion. A book can’t cry while it discusses genocide or dictatorships or apartheid, but a person does. But people don’t want that. They want the hipster chic appeal of a revolution and resistance, but not the humans. A professor gets lower ratings and is talked down poorly if they exhibit anything other than a stoic and neutral persona.
The way academia is constructed in the west has such an emotionally impoverished approach to politics and I honestly don’t understand how one can prefer it that way.
If you want to take a trip abroad, do it.
If you want to take a swim class, do it.
Go to the beach in a bathing suit or a two piece, do it.
Don’t wait to live your life until you’re skinny.
If you want to lose weight, that’s fine. Do it, but don’t wait to fall in love with your life and yourself until you’re skinny.
You want to get healthy, start with your emotional and spiritual health and well-being
aceflux: similar to genderflux in that how asexual you feel tends to flux in and out in intensity. some days you may feel apathetic toward sex, then others you might feel entirely sex-repulsed, and some days you’re just like sex? yeah. cool.
aroflux: similar to genderflux in that how aromantic you feel tends to flux in and out in intensity. some days you may feel apathetic toward romance, then others you might feel entirely romance-repulsed, and some days you’re just like romance? yeah. cool.
coined by: ngc2068
moods. the word you’re looking for is moods.
not wanting to bone 24/7: now a sexuality
Revolutionary poetry has been a key part of the lesbian lexicon since 600 BCE.
Poetry has constantly been a mechanism for oppressed people to speak truths to power and to one another in a form that is relatable and digestible—as an expression of artfulness and love for community. Pat Parker, Black Lesbian Feminist, wrote poetry that was as relevant to the womyn who were its subjects and the vast amounts of other feminists, Black people, and lesbians who were its audience.
Born in 1944, the youngest daughter of a working class family in Houston’s Third Ward, Pat Parker’s relationship to class privilege greatly influenced her relationship to writing as a career. When asked how she managed to earn money as a poet by Diane Vozoff of the newspaper Lesbian Tide, Parker replied, “I play a lot of games, juggling monies around… I finally decided I’m going to make money as a writer or starve to death.” Parker left Texas for California, earning degrees from Los Angeles City College and San Francisco State College. Far from having a singular focus of activism, Parker was an active member of the Black Panther Party and worked as the medical coordinator of the Oakland Feminist Women’s Health Center from 1978 to 1987.
Parker’s recognizable poetic legacy is one characterized by carefully crafted poetry meant for the voice and works that draw heavily from personal experience. Her poetry reminds us as Audre Lorde notes in the forward to Pat Parker’s Movement in Black “for all women, the most enduring conflicts are far from simple.” Parker’s poem about the death of her sister at the hands of her brother-in-law, Womanslaughter, serves as a testament to using writing to process and document deeply traumatic experiences for the purpose of healing from and raising awareness about violence against womyn. She effortlessly turns a personal truth into a political one in the poem when she states: Men cannot rape their wives. Men cannot kill their wives. They passion them to death.
Pat Parker’s life and works confirm her refusal to separate her complex identities. When asked by Audre Lorde what revolution meant to her, she replied, “If I could take all my parts with me when I go somewhere and not have to say to one of them, ‘No, you stay home tonight, you won’t be welcome’…The day all the different parts of me can come along, we would have what I call a revolution.”
Article by: Cyrée Jarelle Johnson Cyrée Jarelle Johnson is a Black Femme dyke writer, scholar, zinester, and poet. Cyrée Jarelle is committed to relocating Femme culture from margin to center using writing, non-formal education and communal publication.
Subordination itself is a broad, deep, systematic dynamic discernible in any persecution based on race or sex. Social subordination has four main parts. First, there is hierarchy, a group on top and a group on the bottom. For women, this hierarchy is experienced both socially and sexually, publicly and privately. Women are physically integrated into the society in which we are held to be inferior, and our low status is both put in place and maintained by the sexual usage of us by men; and so women’s experience of hierarchy is incredibly intimate and wounding.
Second, subordination is objectification. Objectification occurs when a human being, through social means, is made less than human, turned into a thing or commodity, bought and sold. When objectification occurs, a person is de-personalized, so that no individuality or integrity is available socially or in what is an extremely circumscribed privacy (because those who dominate determine its boundaries). Objectification is an injury right at the heart of discrimination: those who can be used as if they are not fully human are no longer fully human in social terms; their humanity is hurt by being diminished.
Third, subordination is submission. A person is at the bottom of a hierarchy because of a condition of birth; a person on the bottom is dehumanized, an object or commodity; inevitably, the situation of that person requires obedience and compliance. That diminished person is expected to be submissive; there is no longer any right to self-determination, because there is no basis in equality for any such right to exist. In a condition of inferiority and objectification, submission is usually essential for survival. Oppressed groups are known for their abilities to anticipate the orders and desires of those who have power over them, to comply with an obsequiousness that is then used by the dominant group to justify its own dominance: the master, not able to imagine a human like himself in such degrading servility, thinks the servility is proof that the hierarchy is natural and that objectification simply amounts to seeing these lesser creatures for what they are. The submission forced on inferior, objectified groups precisely by hierarchy and objectification is taken to be the proof of inherent inferiority and subhuman capacities.
Fourth, subordination is violence. The violence is systematic, endemic enough to be unremarkable and normative, usually taken as an implicit right of the one committing the violence. In my view, hierarchy, objectification, and submission are the preconditions for systematic social violence against any group targeted because of a condition of birth. If violence against a group is both socially pervasive and socially normal, then hierarchy, objectification, and submission are already solidly in place.
Feminist silence about love reflects a collective sorrow about our powerlessness to free all men from the hold patriarchy has on their minds and hearts.
bell hooks, Communion: The Female Search for Love (via vul-va)
you know what? that’s some bullshit. feminists are screaming their throats raw about love. and because the love is ABOUT WOMEN LOVING THEMSELVES AND EACH OTHER, and that love is not about CENTERING MEN, bell hooks doesn’t even hear it as love. in fact, she hears nothing at all. she hears only the “silence” of “collective sorrow” and a feminist “powerlessness”. she dares slander love by conflating heterosexuality with vast universal loving-kindness. such blasphemy! akin to grabbing a fistful of whale-poop and declaring an end to the ocean’s mysteries. how dare she! LIES!
i know a shit-ton about love. i know how much love it takes to burn down lies in my own mind and in the minds of my sisters. i know how much love it takes to stay on the battlefield and FIGHT FOR WHAT I LOVE. and you know what i love? WOMEN. i know how much love it takes to resist with every cell in my fucking body and carry that spark of resistance through the hellstorms of each moment of each day, where i am told that i am not entitled to even the ground under my feet or the breath in my lungs. where i am not even allowed TO CALL MYSELF WOMAN.
and also! also! my love is POWERFUL. my love is not some sorrowful victorian ms. havisham perma-mourn wah wah why won’t men straighten up and fly right whine! MY LOVE IS NOT ABOUT MEN.
the power of my love is in SEEING THE TRUTH OF MALE HATRED AND EVIL CLEARLY. the power of my love is THAT IT SEES AND ACTS WITH THE SKILLFUL MEANS OF RADICAL FEMINISM THAT IS FOR, ABOUT, AND BY WOMEN. only women.
my love is not some consolation prize. loving women is not forlorn or maudlin or sentimental. loving women is robust and raw and terrifying and cleansing. my loving myself and my sisters is vajraradix diamond-sighted radical truth-speaking! my love is diamond-radical vajraradix pure! my love is not about grasping at what is not there!
my love is so profound that it brings the light of truth. and that truth is that the times are so dark that the only way is to turn away from men and burn alive with love for my sisters.
my love is not about rescuing men. my love is about WOMEN.
sisters! do not accept that you are second best! do not accept that you have no power! if you love then you are ever-powerful! if you love then you are already free!!!!
this, is the revolution. the non-grasping love that banishes the darkness of evil. the non-grasping love that consumes you alive. so that you burn as a human pyre, a bright column of living flame in this dark age.
sisters! LET’S BURN TOGETHER AND LIGHT THIS WORLD ON FIRE!
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