Started this as a Tumblr post in response to come work conversations of late.
I’ve lived through several revolutions/revelations these past few years, but the biggest one, by far, was in 2012, when I realized I was white…
You have to own your race if you believe in fighting racism. You can’t fight what you can’t see.
I spent my childhood a gentle ghost
wandering the hallways of the living,
passing right by & through them
mind elsewhere, books clutched to hollow chest,
reciting memories that never were —
stories I told myself
stories I was told.
I couldn’t take a step without whispering
some plot twist or teaser
a bit of dialogue
I spent my childhood a gentle ghost
slipping notes to myself
in my locker
drawing hands I’d never hold
haunting teachers’ desks
(the old are always willing
to bend an ear to a spirit,
to send a mind wandering,
a minute out of time.)
I was never present
in the in-between moments that the living lived for
I would wander, daydreaming
living other lives
anticipating homework assignments and tests and quizzes
with an abstract glee,
phantom stomach grumbling at the thought
of all the pages I’d devour that night at home.
I could only take physical form in the classroom
where lectures and learning
cast a spell on the outlines of the girl that was me
and let her live
in the stories told on the chalkboard
(geometry, astronomy, rhetoric)
no wonder I raised my hand so much;
the fleshy rush of air slipping down skin
as I pushed against gravity,
and requested the right to speak
— a flex of earthly muscle;
a daring expression of presence/free will.
Occasionally, immaterial again as a ghost in the lunchroom or
on the stairwell, I’d have moments
when the clouds of my daydreams would part
and the present was laid plain all around me
What’s that feeling that pulsed through
my phantom heart?
Reminded of distance, of otherness,
I know that heart space tightened with something
but I won’t do the disservice of pretending
it was remorse.
One day you wake up and you’ll care a little more (you’ll care a little less).
Some days you just want to be Björk, you know?
Who is it (that never lets you down)?
It’s all art
i received this gif in an email from my friend jessica guilfoyle. subject line: “everything”
You feel strong by pretending you only need one half of your brain to navigate this world. You feel smug knowing you need both.
But the truth is, along with those hemispheres, you need your whole damn heart and body in on the game, too. Your Self, your humanness, your experience of the world, your power to Be in it isn’t contained in a single pinky, a patch of skin, the cerebral cortex, a memory from five years ago.
It’s you, Gestalt. It’s You.
Mural Art v. Street Art v. Graffiti v. Art
Most excellent commentary by the pun-tastic UK street artist JPS.
An excerpt from the must-read #Ferguson piece: The Coming Race War Won’t Be About Race by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
This, this, this x1000. And this is why, when I say this moment feels the way the air felt — charged as it was with the electricity of millions of minds trying to articulate the same near, yet distant thought at the same time — this is the way it felt in the weeks before Occupy broke out of Zuccotti Park and captured the world’s attention.
It’s significant to feel that charge. It’s worth not only paying attention to, but reflecting on your relationship to it. (Will you, too, raise up your little antenna for a chance to catch the lighting storm?)
The coming race war will be about class — and it will (and should) be about race, too — but most importantly, regardless of the theory of change applied, the thoughtfulness in (or absence of) its strategy, the coming demonstrations will represent the flex of civic muscle, a populous awakening to itself, its power, and its ability to create…to remix the shames of this world and lay the next few bricks we need in the foundation to build another one.