Posts in Politics
Stories I'm Listening To

Since I've started my new job (at almost seven months in, it's almost not new anymore), I've endured an hour-long commute each way. Some days, when Beloved is in town, we carpool. Other days, when I drive myself, I've discovered Overdrive, which allows me to check audiobooks out from my library for free. I've never been much for thrillers, but I-70 is so horrifying with people going from 75 miles an hour to full stop while texting, that I've realized thrillers and biographies are about as deep as I can go while driving. Plus the cumulative fatigue from radiation makes me want to fall asleep when the traffic gets slow, so I need some action on the audiobook to keep me awake.

As far as thrillers go, I've enjoyed Ruth Ware, particularly as all her audiobooks are narrated by Imogene Church, whose British accent makes both "What?" and "Stupid!" sound like the most profound words ever spoken in the English language. This last week, I also listened to AMERICAN SNIPER, the autobiography of celebrated sniper Chris Kyle, and that inspired a spirited discussion at home regarding war and the mindset required for war and my own personal existential crises triggered by war (in high school I discovered CATCH-22, the first book to truly encapsulate the way I feel about war, so that pretty much explains my perspective). I'm pretty sure we agreed to disagree, with my husband assured we'd all die if I were in charge, and I assured that if we did, it would be with a clear conscience.

Prior to Ruth, I went through another of my Neil Gaiman phases. Let me recommend anything by Neil Gaiman on audiobook, because he reads all his own stuff. NEVERWHERE is particularly wonderful, and you'll never think of the London tube system in the same way ever again. I haven't even been to London, but the angel of Islington is on my mind all the time.

Listening to books is so much different than reading them. You're still living in someone's head, but it's a much slower process. I remember when my third grade teacher used to read to us, particularly BUNNICULA. How soothing it is to be read to. I only wish I could do voices. I'd surely love to be an audiobook talent if I could do voices and accents. Alas.

Where was I going with this? The stories. The days have started to bleed together, and I've had to take walks every day at work to avoid falling asleep from the radiation fatigue. When I go for walks, I wear my headphones, and I listen to my stories. For most of this month, I was in Fallujah and Ramadi hearing about badasses, then it flipped to a reach in England I can't find when I try to look it up. I was hoping it was based on a real place so I could see it, the way I searched in vain for Stephen King's DUMA KEY.

The stories have also interspersed with my stress dreams. There's the one where I'm cleaning grout in my bathroom. There's the one where I'm trying to step on the brakes in Vicki the destroyed convertible, and the car won't stop. There's the recurring one where I'm going back to college again, even though I went twice, but this time I have nowhere to live and the stress of finding somewhere to sleep is all I can concentrate on.

I keep having these dreams where I work all night, and I wake up with my neck muscles tight, feeling like I haven't slept at all.

And so, in a sleep-drunk blur, I immerse myself back in the stories.

When my leg was broken, I read my way through Stephen King's THE DARK TOWER series. Now my Goodreads list functions like a touchstone for what I'm going through, business books reflecting my ambition and political autobiographies and novels my confusion about the stories the news is telling me.

Truth be told, I'm a little scared by the changing weather patterns and the hostility between nations.

Truth be told, I'd rather read novels than the nightly news. At this point, truth is stranger than fiction.

I'm still working on my own stories, but more and more I'm adding my own life back into something that was supposed to be entirely fiction. We'll see if that works. Maybe it won't. At the end of the day, immersing myself in stories feels better than immersing myself in the chaos going on in the world.

 

Politics, Writing Comments
Like a Goat

Sometimes, I feel like a goat. Bleating. Because I am so useless.

Last year at BlogHer, I went to a panel about white privilege, among other things. I was one of the fewer than 10 white people there, and I was ashamed. Not to be there, but that more white people weren't.

I should've written about it then. I don't blog so much anymore. But that's not an excuse.

It's not intentional, not to write. It's that with all the bullshit that's gone on in the past two years (the past 1,000 years), I'm starting to wonder what people think of me. I haven't been able to achieve any change. Not that I have delusions of grandeur. It's just ... am I just a goat?

It is even privileged to wonder such a thing, to think my voice should matter. I want to speak, to show solidarity. But I also recognize that to speak is to interrupt, at this point.

I don't want to interrupt.

I don't want to bleat.

I don't want to be silent, lest that be seen as acceptance.

I sit in audiences, listening to my friends speak of racial inequality. I sit to bear witness and show my face. I'm not sure how my friends interpret my presence. I hope they see me as supporting them, not inserting myself.

I find it hard to believe we haven't come farther. I find it hard to believe we've come this far.

I still can't fathom any person ever thought it was okay to "own" another person.

Sentient beings can't be owned.

I won't let my daughter ever forget that. We, white people, we screwed up so bad for so long. But we are all human beings.

Damn.

Politics
Guest Post: FARMWORKER & the Story of Undocumented Agricultural Workers from Diana Prichard

(Editor's Note: Thanks for taking time to check out this guest post from my farming friend Diana Prichard of Righteous Bacon. I've known Diana for many years now, and I've always been impressed by her dedication to farming and agriculture and her moral compass. I know I recently enjoyed Making a Murderer on Netflix and believe documentaries are one of the easiest ways to educate a lot of people in a little bit of time about complicated issues like the American judicial system or how we get our food. Immigration is not a pet cause of mine, but I fully support the part all immigrants play in the success of small businesses and small farms. Beyond dollars and cents, I personally believe America should open its arms to immigrants and refugees.)

From "The New Colossus," a sonnet by American poet Emma Lazarus, which is mounted on the base of the Statue of Liberty:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

I distinctly remember the first time it really hit me what was at stake in making a documentary about undocumented farmworkers. I had just finished filming and photographing the wedding of the couple featured in the documentary and was following the bride, groom and a caravan of their friends and family from the church to the reception location. I found myself wondering why in the world they were driving so slowly—just a mile per hour under the speed limit, but about ten miles too slow for my usual speed demon style. I knew where we were headed and planned to stop off on the way there anyway so I merged out into the passing lane and started to accelerate around the car carrying the bride and groom when it hit me like a ton of bricks: that even the slight risk of driving a few miles per hour over the speed limit was a distinct privilege. That they were driving “so slow” because, while if I got pulled over I’d have an unfortunate speeding fine to pay, if they got pulled over it could be the end of their lives as they know them. What would be a routine traffic stop for me could turn one of the happiest days of their lives into a living nightmare and tear their family thousands of miles apart from one another. 

It’s not that I’d gone into this project callously. We had many meetings and discussions before I ever began filming and I’d spent hours considering what security steps I would need to take in order to protect their identities until we were ready to reveal them. I knew in my mind, but that was the first time it really hit me in soul. Since then, there have been countless moments like that one. Fleeting seconds where I get just a glimpse of what it’s like to be productive, valued members of this American society, but also undocumented, and every single one is heart-wrenching. 

The story of immigration powering agriculture in the United States is long. In the 1920s Hispanic farmworkers were already migrating north to work in California’s green fields of lettuce and cabbage. Today, 77% of farmworkers in the U.S. are foreign born. Most of them are Hispanic, and most remain undocumented in the U.S. These people are economic contributors to our society and valued community members where they live and work, and they are at an ever-increasing risk of deportation—both now and as our next president is elected and takes office with immigration at the forefront of the national dialogue. The dairy industry alone estimates that loss of even half of Hispanic farmworkers in the sector would result in a 33% increase in milk prices. In the fruit and vegetable sectors we have already seen what immigration crackdowns do—when immigrant laborers have been run out of states like Georgia for fear of deportation under stricter laws the crops have rotted in the fields, because there is no one else willing to do the work. 

As the inflammatory rhetoric around immigration heats up this election cycle, I fear that some of our most vulnerable immigrants are getting lost in the noise. Through 'Farmworker,' a documentary and companion publication by the same name, I’m trying to change that, bring awareness to their contributions to our affordable food supply, give them a voice — too often they are portrayed as helpless in the media, but they’re capable people and deserve a spot at the table when we talk about immigration policy — and ultimately affect the national dialogue on immigration, cultivating an awareness of what we all have at stake if they are forced out. Farmworker isn’t just about farmers or even just about immigration; it’s about food, and if you eat, it’s about you. 

Beyond what I’ve learned about what it’s like to live undocumented in the U.S. these past few months, I’ve also learned what it takes to make a documentary. I’ve already spent thousands dollars and countless hours of my time—both of which I consider a good investment, because I believe deeply in the worthiness of this project—but neither of those things has brought me close enough to really doing these people justice so now, I’m crowd-funding. The truth is, I’m a farmer myself. We don’t employ immigrant workers. We don’t actually employ anyone outside our family, because our farm is tiny. But I’m still fairly well connected inside the ag industry. I probably could have gone to them for funding. This is a really important topic for farmers of all types and operations of all sizes. But I didn’t want to be tied to any industry for the message. I want to be able to tell it without bias and for our readers and viewers to know that what went into this is only heart, soul and hard work, no spin. That’s why I’m asking you for help. 

I need to raise $30,000

in 30 days

. It seems like an insurmountable feat, but I’m keeping the faith in the power of our online community strong. I know we can do great things; I’ve seen it happen before. 

Donate.

This

is

a crowd fund, and ultimately what I need to complete this project is money and I cannot express how much contributions of any size are appreciated. Backing this project financially—whether with $10, $100 or $1000 dollars—helps us do justice for people who are literally risking their lives to have a voice in a country where every citizen should already have one. And this crowd fund is all or nothing, which means if we don’t meet our $30,000 goal, we don’t get any of the pledges. Which brings me to the next item.

Spread the word.

 If 3,000 people give $10, we meet our goal. That seems like a lot of people, but if we put our networks together, it’s probably just a small fraction of the people we know. But we have to reach out to many, many times than number to get enough donations first. If you have a social media account on any platform, please consider telling your followers about this. And if you know family, friends or other contacts who might care about this issue, too, please consider reaching out to them directly to encourage them to back this project, too. Emails always reach people and encourage action better than Facebook posts and tweets, but I’m not picky. I’ll take both. 

EMBED CODE FOR VIDEO:

Farmworker: How Immigration Feeds America from Diana Prichard on Vimeo.

LINK TO CAMPAIGN: bit.ly/farmworker

Politics
My Post for James Oliver, Jr.'s #WhatDoITellMySon

Today I'm writing at SheKnows.com!

#WhatDoITellMySon is something I've never had to ask myself, and I'm sorry

4 hours ago

#WhatDoITellMySon is something I've never had to ask myself, and I'm sorry

Image: Rita Arens

I have no idea what it's like to raise a black son in America — this is what I can offer

Dear James, I can't and won't pretend to understand what it's like to raise a black son ever, let alone in our current 2015.

I'm not sure I can tell you what to tell your son. You're a strong, capable father, and I have faith you will guide him in the best way possible.

Here's what I know: I was once a white person raised almost solely among white people. This became problematic because even though my family and friends didn't talk about other races, their body language suggested that the other was different — perhaps to be feared. Since I grew up in a town of 5,000 people who were 99 percent white, I didn't have to think about race much until I went out into the world.

It might be important to say that many, many white people can live their whole lives without interacting with anyone but white people. There are enough pockets of the country that are mostly white for this to be true.

Read the rest at SheKnows.

Earthquakes. And Iran. And Ta-Nehisi Coates.

Note: I wrote this on the plane on the way to #BlogHer15, so this post is already ten days old. After consulting some friends, I decided to publish it anyway. I don't really care if it doesn't win me any popularity contests. This post was springing from my fingers as I was still reading Coates' book, and that hasn't happened to me in a long time.

I didn't know President Obama planned to speak today. I flipped to NPR out of boredom during the hour-long ride to the airport.

Obama talked about a deal America had forged with our "allies and partners" -- I assume "partner" in this sense is less romantic than what some of my friends call their lovers -- in order to keep Iran from getting a nuclear bomb.

I gripped the wheel tighter as my default inner voice asked, "Why shouldn't they have one when we do?"

Because, removing all nationalism from the equation, this hardly seems fair.

Stay with me a moment.

The more I learn about our brains from scientists and our souls from writers and artists, the more I realize what I grew up accepting to be true is a rationalization to benefit whoever is telling the story. They weren't evil in telling it, either -- it's what they were taught or came to believe.

In sitting with my own feelings, I now believe there are no universal truths or common histories, there are only the stories we tell ourselves. Which, in and of themselves, are so divergent no two people witnessing an event ever agree on all the details.

All we can do is take the information, go forward, and try to be a good human.

I got to the airport and started reading Ta-Nehisi Coates' BETWEEN THE WORLD AND ME. It's an extended letter to his son about living in America as a black man, but maybe more importantly, it's about how we came to the concept of "black" in the first place.

This book is perhaps one of the best explanations of white privilege I've seen, but Coates doesn't call it that. He calls it "The Dream."

To awaken them is to reveal that they are an empire of humans and, like all empires of humans, are built on the destruction of the body. It is to stain their nobility, to make them vulnerable, fallible, breakable humans.

The Dream tells white people that when black boys are killed by the police, they must have done something to deserve it, because otherwise holy shit, what kind of police academies are we funding here to pull people over or frisk them or God forbid shoot them for something as antiquated as skin color?

The Dream tells white people that the default of beauty is blonde and blue-eyed and there must be something not good about an all-black school.

The Dream ignores Howard University, where Coates found his Mecca.

I understood The Dream. I've equated the scales falling from my eyes to the moment when the red pill is swallowed in The Matrix. I don't want the world to be stupid or ugly. The Dream can hide that for me, for my white family.

The Dream is tempting for those who can afford to believe in it. As Coates points out, believing you should be able to take without regard has nonracial applications. 

The Dreamers will have to learn to struggle themselves, to understand that the field for their Dream, the stage where they have painted themselves white, is the deathbed of us all. The Dream is the same habit that endangers the planet, the same habit that sees our bodies stowed away in prisons and ghettos.

Coates admits he himself imagines a world where he has The Dream, then realizes he has unintentionally also marginalized others. That helps me believe other white people ensconced in The Dream might be able to let Coates in. We have this thing in common, you see: the human desire to dominate those around us. Having that desire in our bodies doesn't make us bad.

Acting on it makes us bad.

Acting on it brought whites to decimate Native Americans, colonize Africa, sell black bodies as property.

How did we do it? By convincing our white selves that our fellow people were not human. How can we do that? Maybe if they had some identifying characteristic ...

Perhaps being named "black" had nothing to do with any of this, perhaps being named "black" was just someone's name for being at the bottom, a human turned to object, object turned to pariah.

What is "race"? It used to matter what kind of European you were ...

But a great number of "black" people are already beige. And the history of civilization is littered with dead races (Frankish, Italian, German, Irish) later abandoned because they no longer serve their purpose -- the organization of people beneath and beyond the umbrella of rights.

Separating the concept of black and white from American, my mind wandered back to Obama's press conference.

Ignore Obama's race. He's the Commander-in-Chief right now. He's 'Merica. And he's forged an agreement with our allies and partners that say we, America, and they, have the right to make decisions about who should and shouldn't have nuclear weapons.

I'm not going to debate whether Iran is a problem or even whether America is a problem. We're all problems to people who don't agree with us.

The question is how do we make our decisions, which ultimately are made with emotion more often than reason?

We make ourselves, Americans, freedom fighters and protectors of the world when we need to in order to justify our own decisions.

We make ourselves white when we want to live The Dream.

In everything when we find ourselves falling back on a default explanation for the way things are -- we should question that.

I do believe Obama and co. questioned the Iran situation and decided the goal is to prevent Iran from getting nuclear bombs, the end. Who cares if it's fair, really? Because, holy shit. Right? Um.

I do not claim to know the answer to this question. I'm just asking it.

I do believe that many white Americans still live in The Dream and believe it's justified and are honestly befuddled with people like Coates.

To acknowledge these horrors means turning away from the brightly rendered version of your country as it has always declared itself and turning toward something murkier and unknown. It is still too difficult for most Americans to do this.

But, Coates points out, we are also befuddled at earthquakes, and so we insist they are the same, race relations and natural disasters -- impossible to control, hard to blame, something that's always been there and that we are helpless to change.

And no one would be brought to account for this destruction, because my death would not be the fault of any human but the fault of some unfortunate but immutable fact of "race," imposed upon an innocent country by the inscrutable judgement of invisible gods. The earthquake cannot be subpoenaed.

But people are not earthquakes, though we can be disasters. We can wreak havoc. But we also have free will.

People have the capacity to plan for the future and to reflect on the past and to change the present.

In my lifetime, I've watched the majority of American attitudes on LGBT people make, if not a 180, then at least a 120.

Frankly, I'm shocked. Shocked that it happened so fast and shocked that the black/white chasm has yawned in that time, or at least it has yawned more publicly.

I asked myself how the LGBT shift happened. In my summation, it happened through art, literature, movies and television. Storylines emerged on TV shows and in movies. People I knew came out. Commercials showed same-sex couples. YA novels featured LGBT romances and relationships.

We are not at a loss for black art, literature, television and movies.

Why is this so hard for white America?

The Dream.

To move on, we have to be prepared to see the matrix, to wake up, to stop looking the other way.

To shed light.

To not worry what our employers will think if they read our blogs.

To realize that handy identifying characteristic our white ancestors used to dominate others holds no place in modern society. Seeing black skin as anything but black skin kicks back to a dead time, a time we must acknowledge existed and consciously move to work past. We must look slavery in its face and spit.

We must promise to move forward and do no more harm.

We must interrupt the signal consciously, and it must be a constant and conscious override or The Dream will continue to inflict pain on all of us.

Ta-Nehisi Coates is an atheist and would not want to be blessed, so I'll call this a salute. His gift for organizing thoughts and studies and history into a slim book so easy to understand should not be underestimated. He could've used that gift to tell any story, but he used it to tell the story of us.

How will we act on it?

The Sky

Today my daughter looked up and said, "Mama, no matter how fast we drive, we never reach that cloud. Do we all see the same sky?"

And I said, "Yes. There's only one sun. One moon. We all see it."

This month, I am happy and sad for us.

I am happy that same-sex couples can now be recognized as spouses anywhere in the U. S.

I am sad that we laid to rest yet more black humans who did no harm. All they did was be black.

Again.

And I think, we all see the same moon. We all see the same sun. We all have bones beneath our different-colored skin. We all love and seek love in return.

We all live under the same sky.

I am happy and sad for us.

The Sky

Politics Comments
We Didn't Start the Fire

We sat behind a family at the Billy Joel concert. Mom, dad, older sister, her husband, younger sister, her bestie, son, girlfriend. The girls, at least, had clearly grown up listening to their parents' Billy Joel albums, because they kept getting each other's attention and doing dance moves choreographed sometime between size 6x and the juniors section.

I loved watching them. Also, they were almost the youngest people there. Beloved and I, at 41, were bringing down the average age of the crowd in our section all by ourselves, and these glorious children young adults were probably fifteen years younger than we are.

I sat (because you sit when you're old and surrounded by other old people terrified to have another beer lest they have to once again roust the entire row to use the restroom) and thought how nice it must be to be Billy Joel and see your music unite so many generations. Or just to be someone capable of filling stadiums for decades. For DECADES. Props, Billy Joel.

Then he sang a song I'd heard he said he wouldn't ever sing again because he kept forgetting the lyrics: "We Didn't Start the Fire." These are those lyrics:

Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray
South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio
Joe McCarthy, Richard Nixon, Studebaker, Television
North Korea, South Korea, Marilyn Monroe

Rosenbergs, H-Bomb, Sugar Ray, Panmunjom
Brando, The King And I, and The Catcher In The Rye
Eisenhower, Vaccine, England's got a new queen
Marciano, Liberace, Santayana goodbye

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Joseph Stalin, Malenkov, Nasser and Prokofiev
Rockefeller, Campanella, Communist Bloc
Roy Cohn, Juan Peron, Toscanini, Dacron
Dien Bien Phu Falls, Rock Around the Clock
Einstein, James Dean, Brooklyn's got a winning team
Davy Crockett, Peter Pan, Elvis Presley, Disneyland
Bardot, Budapest, Alabama, Khrushchev
Princess Grace, Peyton Place, Trouble in the Suez

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Little Rock, Pasternak, Mickey Mantle, Kerouac
Sputnik, Chou En-Lai, Bridge On The River Kwai
Lebanon, Charles de Gaulle, California baseball
Starkweather, Homicide, Children of Thalidomide...

Buddy Holly, Ben-Hur, Space Monkey, Mafia
Hula Hoops, Castro, Edsel is a no-go
U-2, Syngman Rhee, payola and Kennedy
Chubby Checker, Psycho, Belgians in the Congo

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Hemingway, Eichmann, Stranger in a Strange Land
Dylan, Berlin, Bay of Pigs invasion
Lawrence of Arabia, British Beatlemania
Ole Miss, John Glenn, Liston beats Patterson

Pope Paul, Malcolm X, British Politician Sex
J.F.K. blown away, what else do I have to say

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Birth control, Ho Chi Minh, Richard Nixon back again
Moonshot, Woodstock, Watergate, punk rock
Begin, Reagan, Palestine, Terror on the airline
Ayatollah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan
Wheel of Fortune, Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide
Foreign debts, homeless Vets, AIDS, Crack, Bernie Goetz
Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law
Rock and Roller Cola wars, I can't take it anymore

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
But when we are gone
It will still burn on and on and on and on
And on and on and on and on...

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

I watched the younger sister dance in front of me, and I remembered memorizing the lyrics to that song as a teenager. But now, it's us in Afghanistan instead of the Russians. And we still have homeless vets. And boy, terror on the airline went bigger than ever since this song was written. Race relations, um, yeah.

But now it's not me and my generation singing that song. It's my generation doing the stuff.

That twirling twentysomething in front of me is who should be singing the song.

I looked around at the Baby Boomers on either side of me and tried to decide whether to be depressed or hopeful. We didn't light it, but the kids didn't, either.

Will it ever go out?