Magdalena Gomez
20 hrs · I wish to thank all of the invisible ones in the White House who make those in power comfortable and support their lives: The housekeepers; custodians; chefs; prep cooks; administrative assistants; furniture movers; the ones who make the mid-night snacks; the lighters of candles; the setters of tables; the buyers of supplies; the launderers; the unofficial, personal secret keepers; the drivers; the delivery people; the postal workers; the lifters; the pullers; the draggers; the ones who notice when pens run dry; the personal care attendants; the nannies; the tutors; the gardeners; the landscapers; the greeters, the tour guides; the Pages; the interns; the ones who make sure the toilets are clean and the paper is on the roll. Especially to all who toiled as slaves to build the House that is about to be desecrated. It will withstand the onslaught of disgrace by the grace and humility of all who walked those halls and rooms because they truly believed in the heart and soul of our Constitution at its intended core, our Bill of Rights, and the intrinsic meanings of what it means to be President and to be on the team that makes it all work. You worked for us with all of our flaws. Thank you, you who are nameless and faceless to the bigger world beyond those walls. Your grace, dignity and humble fulfillment of jobs well done will live on. You are the ones who will bring dignity to the office regardless of what depravities are to come. The walls will stand, and so will The People.
"Every morning I wake up in a house that was built by slaves."
-First Lady Michelle Obama at the 2016 Democratic Convention

Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it. 
-Adolf Hitler

It is likely that everything I will write in this brief commentary has already been said.  I share it only for the purpose of solidarity with those who have felt it and said it before.  You’re not alone.

How is it that we can “Make America Great Again”? What unravels before us daily is the loss of any gains we had made in civility, as empathy and good manners take drive-through short cuts for the least inconvenience of time wasted on human connection and interaction. We have shopping to do, or three jobs to get the rent paid, or a Netflix binge awaiting next to the bowl of chips.  The demise of human interaction, aliteracy, and jargon that interrupt intimate conversations, converge to collude with our creation of Donald Trump and his rabid determination to Make America Hate Again.

Great Again? This implies that it was indeed once great. I do not equate having the “strongest” military on earth with greatness. A military-industrial complex that thrives on the altruism and/or economic despair of its frontline armed forces,(many from economically oppressed communities who see no other way out of poverty) that sends home soldiers with heroic hearts and damaged minds to empty refrigerators and sub-rate medical care, to be forgotten and discarded, is not great. A nation that believes “discovery” is equal to pillaging and taking by force what has previously existed and thrived in the care of others, is a nation in need of a new vocabulary, with an emphasis on historical etymology. 

A nation that savagely attempted to decimate 500 First Nations and forced their children into “Christian” schools with brutal practices of assimilation and cultural rape, was not a great nation. A nation that views First Nations Peoples as past tense, is not great. A nation that rounded up American citizens that were of Japanese descent and corralled them into concentration camps, was not great; a nation with the highest incarceration rate in the world that distinguishes itself with corporately owned prison labor camps and has one of the worst educational systems that help to feed those prisons, was and is, not great. 

The romanticized 1950’s when women were equated with steerage and servitude.  Not great. A time when we needed a national campaign geared towards children (“Give a Hoot; Don’t Pollute") so they would stop the adults from trashing the rural, suburban and urban landscapes, with garbage that was even thrown from car windows with impunity.  Yes, there was a time in the United States when throwing bags of garbage onto public properties, parks and landscapes was normalized. Nothing great about it.

Yes, we bought and sold human beings; the Black body was once monetary currency. It is now currency for a New Hate, that isn’t new at all; it is simply getting consent to rise again, out in the open, guns blazing.

The violence of sex trafficking of women and children is escalating. You can even find it in Palo Alto, minutes from Stanford University.

The Tuskegee Syphillis Experiments from 1932-1972. Not great.
The decades of forced sterilization of one-third of Puerto Rican women on their colonized island. Not great.
The even more recent forced sterilizations of incarcerated  and poor women in the U.S. Not great.

The list goes on. Monstrous.

We do not adequately protect the rights of children, their safety, their education, nor their food. The U.S. is the only country that hasn’t ratified the Convention on Children's Rights. Great? Homelessness a block away from affluence does not say Great to me either.

When I see the Democratic Party signage that states Love Trumps Hate, I cringe and wonder how many people realize that the words subliminally connect Trump to Love, not Hate. This slogan, and all who accept it without question or concern, serves to underscore our predilection for sound bites, soothing to the collective mental fog of a country in a state of PTSD, where war criminals who defied the will of the people still walk free.

Perhaps if we call things what they are, with words and facts and non-revisionist history, with clear minds, distancing ourselves for a moment from the influences that contaminate our thinking rather than inform it, perhaps if we can move beyond the sound bite, we can take a bite of truth out of the sound. The evidence is in, over and over again: Trump is Hate. 

Now, here’s the hard part, how have we become a nation that has allowed him to rise to such a level of power that he may become the next President of the United States? What have we become and why? 

In the meantime, remember to vote. Netflix can wait.

Little Oscar
named by chance
by circumstance
a bit of a joke
no roots or history
to your naming
it’s no wonder
you seldom understand
the significance of histories
untold, retold, revised, erased, defiled, ill-placed
monogamous solely to your own sullen face
so still, Little Oscar
so closed from the world
hands folded, as if ready for death
perched on the reel
that seldom turns
in the direction of justice
what do you know
of humankind
beyond what you’ve been told
by others like you
so still
so perfect
so robbed of life
all affect rehearsed
cajoled from the hole
where soul might have been
had your name
mattered more.
Poor little Oscar,
so perfect
so still
balanced on a sword
you fight for nothing more
than staying in one place.


-Magdalena Gómez
January 22, 2016

After a recent conversation with yet another veteran who has shared horror stories with me about their stateside V.A. hospital medical care, I've decided to share my 2015 blog again.  Here it is:
​

Imagine this, USA:  One town or city in every state  makes an intentional decision to have one year without July 4th fireworks. The money is  instead designated to cover services for veterans, and their families, who also serve:  health, education, food and housing.  The baby in the crib whose mommy or daddy emerges from the trenches with PTSD may end up serving for a lifetime.  We can't stop wars that make the rich filthy and our landscapes filthier. We CAN stop the fireworks. 

We can educate for educated choices. 

Despair should not be the motivation to serve. Manufactured scarcity builds armies.  Lies and profiteering build wars.

Instead of a night of ephemeral toxic  light shows we choose to support:

The young person who believed it was the only way out of poverty. The only way to gain respect, the only way to get an education. The same ones who instead returned to an empty refrigerator, a foreclosure notice, the vestiges of brain damage and dependence on a wheelchair. The ones bamboozled by the perfect teeth of seductive recruitment in the corridors of failing schools and crumbling neighborhoods. 

We choose to believe in those who did it because they believe(d), even if we do not. We honor the goodness of their hearts, the purity and innocence of their intentions.  The heroic heart that truly believes peace and democracy are possible and is willing to die for it.

We choose to support those whose lives and minds are shredded by the revelations and truths of war.

We choose to support the spouse that is wounded when love becomes the fist of trauma and no longer recognizes itself.

We choose to look at ourselves with honest eyes:

We "selfie" ourselves into the void. Pretend. Smile. Deny. Despair.
Die Slowly.  Die Stupidly. Live in FEAR! The Musical!

One homeless veteran is one too many and shames us all.
We can be patriots. Even if we don't believe.
No flag required. No shots fired.

The statistics below by themselves would be enough reason to end fireworks. Can't stop war. There is too much insatiable lust for profit at stake. The fear of death creates more death as cowards send the brave to the front lines so they might immortalize themselves with all that money can buy.  Passing down blood money through generations in fear of death.  Can't stop that lust. Can't end that cowardice.

Start small; stop fireworks.  

http://www.nfpa.org/safety-information/for-consumers/holidays/fireworks/reports-and-statistics-about-fireworks

Want to see the real numbers of government spending? 
https://www.nationalpriorities.org

“Like” is a bloodless word that begs for synonyms by its mediocrity. Like is the least committed word in the expression of holding someone in high regard.  It is often the timid precursor to “I love you” or a euphemism for feeling a sexual attraction.  That little turd of a word can multi-task as a preposition, noun, adjective, a conjunction, or a verb. It has become the most unworthy recipient of global attention and usage since landing on Facebook.

That feckless miniature of human response has gained iconic stature in the global marketplace and lexicon.  Its evil twin, the thumb-up emoticon (yes, it is one thumb, not two) now serves to punctuate “like” in the way that using a bold font might. Flames are added to this impostor of true emotion to mimic some version of fervor.  We now have the option to “like” with just a little more oomph.  We must take caution to not strain ourselves.

When a barrage of “likes” appear without comment in response to a bereavement Facebook Status Update such as “My mother died today” it is beyond my comprehension.  It appears that many allow the word “like” to convey a multitude of sentiments without having to make any emotional commitment or investment of time whatsoever. Perhaps when “like” appears to be an egregiously inappropriate response it is actually paired with some sort of extra-sensory companion that underscores its true intention:  “I’m not really an insensitive buffoon, you know that my ‘like’ simply means I am here for you.  I’m sorry for your loss; you have my deepest condolences.”  Do we allow “like” to speak for us because our ability to communicate with each other is diminishing as our screen time increases exponentially?  

Choice.  Intention.  I choose to have face to face conversations with others and make sure we actually look into each other’s eyes.  When I go to a restaurant and the “server”  introduces themselves, I introduce myself too.  I ask him/her about their day.  A brief conversation that lets them know I see them and value their service.  We are having a human interaction for mutual benefit.  

We can learn a great deal about people on Facebook by their comments, what they choose to post (or not post; words or images).  With the ready access to “like” do we take the easy way out with conversations that might require us to be vulnerable or fully present when someone needs us or is clearly asking for a specific response?  Are we simply too busy to live?  “Like” has too much power on Facebook; often replacing the vocabulary of human engagement in the form of dialogue. The same could be said of texting, OMG, IDK, WTF?  These abbreviations are making it into school papers - yes even college - ask professors you know - and life, education, discourse and relationships are on the fast track to the lowest common denominator of living, learning and loving.

Addicted to social media as your primary mode of human engagement? An inbox message or chat is a good place to start a more intimate conversation.  E-mail, call, pick up the phone, Skype, send a card, write a letter (remember those?) or best of all, meet in person whenever possible.  Go slow. Recovering the sense of wonder, passion and joy that comes with intimacy in our human connections could make you feel you’ve entered another dimension.  To be genuinely connected to family, friends, colleagues, strangers and the world you inhabit (and inhabits you) is not always safe or pleasant. And in this warp-speed culture, it is certainly not always convenient. 

We need to guard our time like the ephemeral treasure it is. What we lose cannot return, ever.  Let’s be choosy and selective.  Not everyone deserves our presence or even our absence.  Be clear and intentional in communicating; ditch the passive aggressive quotes you might post on social media to relay an indirect message and pick up the phone or make an appointment instead.  Which one makes you feel healthier - passive/aggressive or intentional/compassionately clear and direct?

I’m not sure which one repels me the most, an inappropriate like, or its use as the indolent response to a specific open question; or perhaps a comment when the request for “no comments please” is crystal clear.  Oh, and what about that cowardly, commitment phobic thief of time and energy on event postings, Maybe, or that thoughtless Going accompanied by an enthusiastic and public comment of assurance of “wouldn’t miss it!”; the no-show sans any kind of alibi or apology, sincere or otherwise.  We end up watching the door to make sure those Going cheerleaders feel welcomed and embraced at the event.  Their absence stings and our faith in humanity erodes just a little more, however imperceptibly   Why is it that people think so little of themselves as to believe that their presence or absence is of no consequence?  Going means yes. And yes is a commitment.

I am the first to admit that I have inadvertently missed appointments, slept through alarms from utter exhaustion, left things undone, missed e-mail messages that get lost in the daily avalanche and cannot always return every single phone call that arrives.  I am certain have been the cause of disappointment to others and to none more than to myself.  It happens; we’re human and fallible.  For those of us who don’t have personal assistants, housekeepers and personal trainers, keeping up with appointments, calls, events, bills, correspondence, work-outs, special dates and celebrations, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and all that daily life requires, can be a full-time job even before we do the one that brings in the money.  Taking responsibility, holding ourselves accountable, is how we separate ourselves from gelatinous sea life that sting with disregard or self-knowledge.  If we wish to be discernible from the sponge, when we are in error, we look for the way to make it right.  One of the ways we can be more responsible is to be aware of what and how we post on social media. When we receive an invitation to an event, be honest and clear in our response. Show up or shut up.

My social media weakness?  Animated emoticons/stickers when chatting with one very close friend.  The sillier, the better.  We binge on them for a few moments and then get to the real conversation.  We try to out-do each other with how much we can say in images.  A sticker here and there is fun, and allows my inner kid to be momentarily liberated from adult responsibilities - but NEVER while driving.  I won’t even talk to myself when I’m behind the wheel.  I save it up for whoever I’m on my way to meet, grateful that I have communication options other than social media.

There are people for whom social media is their most viable outlet, due to illness (been there), physical isolation, or difficulty with face to face engagement.  There are more than two sides to every story, especially one as complex as human interactions in an increasingly high-speed, fast food, toxic, emotionally dangerous world where the greatest threats to our survival are the terrorism of manufactured wars for profit;  genetically modified and processed foods; privatization of water; the school to prison pipeline; the willful endangerment of bees (which makes genetically modified food a corporately profitable necessity which can masquerade as the province of the scientifically heroic) and the relentless gang rape of the earth so that few may flourish as millions perish.  

We cannot attend to it all, but we can be aware of ourselves and our daily human interactions.  The more we isolate ourselves behind screens, the less conversant we become, the less we read and learn, the less we unite with a diversity of people, the easier we are to control and to bamboozle. If we are surrounded by normalized mediocrity, we become less discerning and easier to impress.  Tyrants welcome the lazy and indifferent.  Are you a “like” a “maybe” or a “going”?  Will your legacy be a perfunctory comment, a wall of quotes from others, or do you plan to make a statement of your own?  

What is the true meaning of all the “likes” in our lives?  What is it that we’re not saying?  Even as we use Facebook and other social media to “stay in touch” are we falling more out of touch?  

Is like enough of a life for you?

A few days into ENCUENTRO 2014 at the Los Angeles Theater Center, I fractured a bone in my left foot.  I could have been miserable, but all it wrought was even more beautiful people and experiences into my life.

As soon as Geoffrey Rivas, a member of the über talented Latino Theater Company ensemble, saw me limping, he made his way to the properties room and suddenly appeared with a cane.  It was brought to me with such genuine concern for my well-being, that in Geoffrey’s hands it became a Wizard’s staff, a magic wand, a healing stick.  I promised to send it back once I got home, but honestly, I’m having a difficult time parting with it.  All of you who were there get the sub-textual analogy.

For fifteen days I lived in a microcosmic world where everyone loves the arts and honors the artists.  Collaboration trumped competition, multiple generations learned from each other. The young honored the elders in that old-school way that feels like the kind of respect that can save the world. High school students jumped to their feet in wild standing ovations for the early morning shows performed especially to welcome them.  One young man came to me in full Day of the Dead make-up after seeing Dancing in My Cockroach Killers, and worked up the courage to recite one of his poems, that was beautifully crafted with a great hook about the true meaning of success.  He wanted to connect writer to writer.  Those are the moments I live for!  Gracious manners abounded everywhere, people looking out for each other, championing each other’s work.  None of the artifice, petty jealousies and diva behavior of which theater artists are often accused, invaded the space.   If it did swirl in any small way, it was eventually, gently erased. Glossy Fake will not endure in the Matte presence of Real.

Did I mention that Don Francisco’s lattes were available all day long and free of charge and served by the nicest people full of grace and hospitality.  Now that’s how to do business!

The word impressive is not strong enough to speak of most of the young people present, only the translation will suffice:  ¡IMPRESIONANTE!  To see the dedication to their craft, art and their colleagues, the self-respect with which they carried themselves, and their lack of arrogance or entitlement, was life-giving.  The message was clear, even in their body language when they networked:  “I’m here to learn; to teach; to make contacts; to become more of who I am; I am here to create art that will make a difference in the world and in the lives of the audiences.  And of course, to have a deliciously good time!”  It is a tribute to them and the choices they are making as well as to the elders who have been role models along the way.  True desire and passion for the arts have no minimum or maximum age. Great artists are in continuous development; I prefer desarrollo (some words are simply juicier in Spanish) at all different stages of their careers.

I disdain the term “emerging artist" for many reasons, including the paternalism with which it is too often used (like when you’ve been an artist for decades but the person who labels you didn’t do their homework) but even worse,  emerging implies an end point.  There is no end to our learning and growth, in life, in art and in craft. Aren’t we always emerging into the next phase of our lives?  We are always emerging from life’s illusions into the deeper realities, like the Velveteen Rabbit.  (If you haven’t read it, I recommend it, along with The Little Prince and Psalm 150 in the Old Testament that praises the arts as worthy enough to be applied to the praising of God.)  I’m not religious, just biblically literate - Christian scriptures more than the others, as I am in love with the Revolutionary Yeshua, political prisoner of the Roman State and champion of the outcasts.  Hater of hypocrisy, despiser of greed, opponent of tyranny, enemy of evil intentions (talk about a super-hero) and a performer in his own right;  you don’t move the masses like he did without stage presence and formidable charisma.  

Okay, yes.  I am the tangent queen.  Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker-we can have five conversations at once and keep them all going in perfect balance while eating a pastrami on rye the size of your head.  Ultimately it all works, because we share our pickles if anyone finds it missing from the wax paper wrap.

The folks at the ENCUENTRO 2014 shared their pickles and their time and looked out for each other.  Chantal Rodriguez, José Luis Valenzuela, Daniel Jáquez, Nicky "Niko" Laboy, Elise Santora, Albert Villalta, Loren the security guard, Alex Meda, Maritxell Carrero, Debra Gallegos, Yolanda Ortega, Eric Aviles (with his daily ferocious hugs) and the ever-present Anthony Rodriguez, were among the many people, who along with my personal daily angelic apparition , Geoffrey Rivas, checked in with me every day.   “How’s your foot” “Do you have your tickets?” “I will escort you to your seat” "How do to take your coffee?" “Have you eaten?” “Let me know if there’s anything I can do” “There’s someone I want you to meet” were among the daily litanies of love and concern. 

Following the panel where I presented beside Pulitzer Prize winning author and journalist, Sonia Nazario; Tony García, Executive Artistic Director of Su Teatro (Denver); Rosalba Rolón, Artistic Director of Pregones/PRTT Theaters; I was granted space and given support by Adriana Gaviria and Ricky Pak to sell my books.  I had only mentioned it at the panel and BAM! I sold twenty-five copies.  The best part of selling my books was the encounters I had with every single person, and the sacred moment of intimacy we shared as they allowed me to look into their eyes to discover what I might write as dedications.

One of the people on line was Dr. Glenn A. López, who provides medical care for the homeless and other uninsured people in Los Angeles.  When he returned two days later he saw me limping and asked, “May I touch your foot?”  I didn’t know he was a doctor at the time, (blush/crush) but found out soon enough.  The next thing I know, he is driving my husband Jim and I to Urgent Care in Marina del Rey and stayed with us until he was satisfied I had received the best care.  Jim and I took him out to lunch - Glenn picked a wonderful place in Venice, and we all got to see the ocean and hills.  Afterwards, Glenn drove us to see the Korean Friendship Bell in San Pedro, where we watched the sun settle into the horizon.  A day I might not have experienced without that fracture.  Glenn attended the rest of the ENCUENTRO days and it become clear would remain friends.

Everyone I know in Los Angeles and the outskirts, who were available, came out to support not only me, but the ENCUENTRO. For all of them, it was their first time at the Los Angeles Theater Center, and after their grand experience, they assured me they were hooked.  I asked them to spread the word and I have no doubt they will.  We can build new audiences a handful of people at a time.  Sometimes I miss the opportunities that are right under my nose - my husband doesn’t miss a thing. He made a list of everyone we knew in the area. This is one example of why I strive to surround myself with people who are smarter, more talented and more astute than I am - it makes me work harder and the stretching that comes with reaching keeps me young.

As I hobbled around the city I took buses and trains and made it out to Long Beach, The Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA), the Museum of Latin American Art (MOLAA) and the Tom Bergins Irish Pub where I had a chance to sit in Cary Grant’s favorite seat and had the best corned beef I could ever imagine-half Irish Jim agreed.  The waitstaff and manager are great conversationalists as well as theater lovers and practioners.

In need of a wheelchair to navigate museums, I had to take the elevator at LACMA, something I would never do.  The wait and ride were slow and I ended up meeting an activist poet from Chile who lives in L.A. now, and a children’s activist from Colombia.  The two of them have been friends for thirty-five years.  The woman from Chile is half Gitana like myself.  We have already begun a collaboration and she will be hiring me to edit a collection of her poetry.  Some sample poems arrived yesterday.  I am intending to do a performance for a fundraiser her friend is doing for a new child-friendly initiative involving the arts, sometime next year.  We are all clearly follow-through people and it will all happen. We will keep on creating win-win partnerships to benefit the greatest number of people possible. When the children’s project unfolds and I have consent, I will blog about it.  When the book is out, I will promote it!

On a day when I was tired and the fracture was acting up, I stayed in the LATC lobby on an unbearably beautiful day.  I probably would have gone swimming if I could, but once again, I received a blessing from this fractured foot. I ended up facilitating an impromptu one on one mini-writing workshop.  A monologue draft was completed.  I gave a follow-up assignment.  You know who you are-I am waiting for the next draft and looking forward to it.

Right after that I had the opportunity to spend time with the gifted and luminous Marissa Herrera (www.MarissaHerrera.com) and the young woman she mentored who is now her friend, and equally gifted, Maribel Barcena López, learning about their collaborations and individual work.  What an inspiration!  What stories.  Two women with whom I also want to collaborate, NOW!

At ENCUENTRO 2014 I saw theater productions at all stages of development.  I couldn’t get enough and saw nearly every show possible in the days I was there, with the exception of one - and I do expect to have another chance. I was moved, inspired, excited, and went through a gamut of emotions - to feel, to think, to want to do more and better work - that is how I always want to feel at the theater.  I saw old friends and made new ones, and my own life has deepened.  Thank you to all who made it possible!

If you didn’t already, I encourage all of you to join the National Association of Latino Arts and Cultures (NALAC) - they support us, we must stand up and support them.  It is affordable and you get so much more than you pay for!  Also make sure you look into their Leadership Training; a life-changing opportunity.

Let’s all stay connected and consider what tangible ways we can reach out to each other and make things happen.  May no one ever feel alone.  May we support each other with more than words, but by our continued actions on each other’s behalf.  Sharing talents, resources, skills, venue.  Anything is possible.  No more gatekeepers: we produce it, we present it, we prosper and then we help others produce, present and prosper.  Its more than just about art; ultimately its about justice.  As was said during a reflection, painting a flower is political.  If an artist actually has the time and access to paint that flower, that is political; a single, beautiful triumph of justice that will have a ripple effect on those who see the flower, meet the artist, are inspired to create.  We can do anything with one such triumph at a time.

All of you who were at the ENCUENTRO 2014 know it was a love fest.  An alternate universe, where it was proclaimed WE ARE AMERICAN THEATER.  I say we are more than that, we are becoming an unstoppable force, a collective and global voice, ready to redefine, expand and explode what it truly means to be AMERICAN, that there is more than one AMERICA and that they were ours from the beginning.

(Geoffrey Rivas, I will eventually return your cane;  just a little while longer, okay?)
___________
To learn more about ENCUENTRO 2014 visit:

http://howlround.com/search/node/Encuentro%202014

To join NALAC visit:
www.nalac.org

During these past few years we have witnessed the premature death of many artists in diverse fields, and in particular artists of color.  Our most recent and public loss was actor, Elizabeth Peña, dead at age 55. It is said she died of “natural causes following a brief illness.”  There is nothing “natural” about a premature death in the 21st Century.  There is an “illness” that all people of color must live with in our society, even those with their star anchored in the stratosphere - discrimination.  We are still considered “other,” and our achievements carted out for public display during the same months that celebrate imperial invasions and genocides coded as “discovery.”

We know of the public losses, and then there are the staggering statistics we don’t see; among them are the suicides and suicide attempts among Latina girls. For one of many articles on the subject see:  http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/features/2013/07/20137217262714490.html.

As a Puerto Rican/Roma (Borikua/Gitana) I have always been keenly aware that I must work twice as hard in all endeavors, despite decades of proving twice the excellence, to get a just wage and work for which I am more than capable.  My “white” privilege ends the moment I open my mouth to introduce myself.  Whatever bigotry I experience, witness or must interrupt on a daily basis, grows exponentially for my sisters and brothers who are not as melanin challenged as myself.  The insults, exclusions, condescensions, assumptions regarding who we are and what we can do, are always just below the surface, regardless of our station in life.  We are welcomed into institutions when it is convenient  or necessary.  We can live next door as long as we don't marry your daughter. The attempts at erasure by exclusion are forever present.  It is most dangerous and insidious when as people of color we do this to each other, as we carry out the bidding of the Master in this perpetual Plantation, to gain mainstream favor, disfiguring ourselves into images of compliance to standards of beauty, behaviors, speech, dress, Europeanized male codes and rubrics of arts production, squeezing our size 12 souls into the size O attire of “Americanized” cultural “normalcy.”   When we have legacy building events and barely anyone shows up, it should not be brushed off as just par for the course.  Something is profoundly wrong and in need of attention.

Of course we’re dying young.  Either because we deny who we truly are for acceptance, or because we defy this colonial mind-set, retaining the authentic self.  Either way, we must constantly live in  the consciousness of self to survive.  What must I negotiate today in order to survive and put food on the table?  How many insults will I have to endure so that I can maintain the equilibrium of the room and not harm the innocent? Who will I need to educate today when I go to the post office or supermarket?  How will my physical and mental health be compromised by the a pervasive culture of normalized violence, which includes discrimination by intention or tacit consent?

I  have a daily practice of mental martial arts. I am forever forging tools that will allow me to fully be who I am and speak the truth without feeling the need to harm anyone in the process-including myself.  Bigotry and discrimination can be legislated against (although some legislation endorse both) but for the human mind to evolve beyond these aberrant corruptions  is not in the foreseeable future.  I love a challenge. 

I refuse, with intention, to not be a victim;  however, this doesn’t mean that I am not victimized. I simply deepen the skills with which I respond, learning from the warriors who have come before me.  

I recently walked into a venue for one of my book signings, where I was greeted by a top to bottom once-over look and a sneer.  The verbal greeting dismissive, the welcome (a misnomer) begrudging.  Apparently my look and being did not meet with approval, regardless of how well I dressed.  The accessories I wore were perhaps a little too creative and my handshake too assertive for a woman.  Clearly, I had been forced down the throat of my host by the institution in which this person is employed.

As the reading and intimate engagement with the audience went on, this person, who at first behaved as if in a hostage situation, began to relax, actually have fun, and even the camera came out.  I would make for good publicity and make the place, and this person look good.  It turned out that I was a viable commodity and a human being worthy of respect after all.   My weapon of self-defense?  I remained fully present to those who attended because they wanted to share that moment of life with me.   I shifted from anger to compassion, retained my balance, and despite the promise of a full house, with only a few people in attendance, I had a great time. Sometimes the haters will realize all the fun they're missing and life energy they are wasting.  Once in a while they come around to self-realization.  Good for them.

These offensive and complex encounters happen all the time, to people of color, in particular.  You arrive with an exemplary track record and a Curriculum Vitae that requires a U-Haul, but you must still prove yourself.  The end result is still an insult, because one should not have to “win” people over just to receive the most basic respect and courtesy.  People of color are more often than not viewed with suspicion and prejudicial doubt.  Even the most nuanced of these moments do not escape us.  The insidious are the most dangerous - the ones we might not quite catch, but our bodies feel.  The side glance, the brief look of disdain.  Our cellular memory retains them all, our brain recording every incident.  The body responds when we must constantly live in a state of hyper-vigilance.  Cortisol is released throughout the body, drenching us with toxicity from the inside out, harming our physical and emotional health, threatening our life expectancy.  We must be subversive and pro-active, guarding our health with intentional choices of what we put into our bodies, our minds, staying physically active, and asking for help when we need it.  Living in an intrinsically racist society that persists in lauding its Founding Fathers who owned slaves, and (just for starters) ignores the genocidal actions and erasure against the First 500 Nations, demand that we protect our minds, bodies and spirits.

We do our best to forgive and forget, but I am not convinced this is a favorable policy.  I prefer to call-out and interrupt, challenge and create change.   Unconditional love and the cultivation of empathy are underrated tools of resistance, as are self-care and an unflappable sense of humor.  Couple these with the creation of art and righteous indignation, unity with like minds, and we can activate change one human interaction at a time.

I still hold onto the idea that the devil is not in the details, but in their absence.  The absent details of history taught to our children.  The revisionist history that depicts people of color as victims:  slaves, coolies, pesticide drenched field workers and nothing more.  The occasional person of color turned icon and used to represent us all.  The marketing that makes sure we are shamed by our appearance so we might buy the products that will make us acceptable: coloring our hair and bleaching our skin; the scalpels that will trim our lips, hips, noses and epicanthic folds. The marketing and discrimination that make us terrified of aging and spend our hard earned money trying to reverse Nature’s course.  

Yes, we are dying young.  Ethnic cleansing takes many forms - creating cultures of addiction (decode the billboards in economically oppressed communities for starters; menthol cigarettes contain sugar and quell hunger); making synonyms of “lack” and “exploitation;” unquestioned, so-called traditions, like eating unhealthy foods as a mark of cultural identity (like you’re not a “real” Puerto Rican if you choose tofu over pork); the corralling of low income earners into shoddy housing (where cut corners benefit the corrupt);  underserved communities where toxic waste dumps are also housed near the teaching hospitals-the poor have always been expendable and subject to experiment; disrupting cross-cultural unity by creating competition for crumbs through out-dated non-profit models: you’re only as good as how much jargon and bean-counter pleasing you can write into a grant (RFP has come to mean Regurgitate Fiscal Preposterousness); we are complicit in our own demise when we only look out for “our own”  and allow the perpetuation of exploitative and unreasonable institutionalized models that feign equitable distribution by funders.  For a microcosmic look at the macro picture of economic exploitation coded as a "lack of resources" all you have to do is check out the budgetary distributions within institutions of "higher learning"  or federally funded institutions for the arts.  We already know the costs of war for profit. 

How many cities have populations where the majority are people of color?  I live in one of them, Springfield, Massachusetts.  And how many of those cities are run by an elite few, made possible by our disunity and the mutual suspicion that we have foolishly bought into?  Yes, we are dying young.  And we will continue to do so as long as we remain in isolation, silent, with each group scrambling and looking out only for their own.

Who are “my own?”  Amina Baraka a formidable artist and spouse of the late Amiri Baraka said, “I don’t care what color you are, my question is, whose side are you on?”

I can answer only for myself.  I am on the side of those who seek and work for justice for all oppressed peoples.  However long we live, let us live twice each day in the memory of those who have died too young.  Live true and with intention. 

Whose side are you on?