So I just came from doing the evaluation session at De La Salle High School, where I did an environmental justice and spoken word class. The students in the class were amazing as always. Even though it's hot as hell in Portland (90 degrees outta nowhere!), and the classroom was hecka hot, they were all there and so involved and awesome. They are going to be teaching their own poetry workshop to their fellow students next week, so we went over the curriculum and they ptu something really wonderful together. It's just so exciting to see all the ways they are committed to getting their voices out and talking about these issues. We went and recorded a couple weeks ago at KBOO radio station and they were so professional and passionate. It sounded better than a lot of cds i've heard from people who get paid to do their poetry. I feel like I just could write for pages and just not say how inspiring and amazing this collection of women poet organizers are. We ended today with a writing exercise, I remember and I don't remember about the workshop, and this is what I wrote:
For the De La Salle Voices of Empowerment Students
Cuz yall rock for reals
By Walidah

I remember voices raised in anger, determination, hope and triumph, spitting ferociously on the mic
I remember the despair in my stomach when I watched depleted uranium swimming in innocent veins by myself, and the rage fueled by yall’s fire when we watched it together
I remember every time yall made a point, my belief in change swelled
I remember combating gentrification with bike paths and sidewalks and community gardens and pirate radio stations and clothing exchanges
I remember the sound of the future arriving right fucking now

I don’t remember vacant eyes and slack jaws
I don’t remember missing papers and excuses involving dogs, cats, bus drivers and ketchup
I don’t remember cutting words or crushed dreams
I don’t remember a world centered on the dominant, the oppressive, the powerful, the elite
I don’t remember that they tell us we don’t have a chance.

I have been trying to organize all my random papers and files becuase my best friend Nadia is coming to visit from the Bay Area today, and I don'tw ant her to see the mess that I've lived in for the past few months. Anyway, I came across this group poem I did with some fifth grade students I worked with at Mt. Scott Elementary School that I was meaning to post months ago, it was so awesome. It was on our last day and we were writing about superheroes, and we all did a line and this is the poem we came up with:

"Super Katie
Duh duh duh!
gets kicked in the butt
by Spiderman.
The Hulk turns green.
Her crime fighting sidekick
comes to to the rescue.
Miss Guinn saves us all
by throwing her rapid fire crutches.
Walidah is awesome
and the sista soul.
Evil Elmo robs Walmart
and Walidah saves the day
with the help of Miss Guinn's class"

I think it's the sweetest thing I've ever had written about me ever.

I am doing a residency at Orchards Elementary School, in Vancouver, Washington. We did writing today on music. I played them two different instrumentals and they had to write the music as a person. We had done an exercise before, and the students were mad that I didn't do it (I was walking around trying to help). It was cool though that they asked me to join in. This is what I came up with.

On a mountain
She stands
Black hair whipping around
Her scarred and still
Beautiful face
She parts her lips
And her voice flows
Like
Rain water
Blanketing the luscious valley below

Clean shaven
He stands on the side of a dusty highway
His head bent as he
Plays the worn guitar
Cradled in his arms like a baby
As the people blur by.
A cigarette dangles from his lips
Like hope dangles from his yes.
His hands move faster
Than the cars
Whizzing by as they move
The strings slicing into his fingers.

Hearts as one,
They broke apart
Like egg shells.
They wander the cities
Hills slums plains
Looking for what they each found
Once,
In each other.

Hasan Shakur, organizer, activist, revolutionary, and my family, was executed by the state of Texas a year ago. His birthday was last week. I thought of him all last week, and intended to post a journal but as all too often happens, life takes you away from it. The day of his birthday I was at a middle school doing a writing workshop. I gave the students the prompt to write on "I am waiting for ____ to save me," and they had to fill it in with a person (it's based on an amazing poem about Venus Williams by Al Letson). One of the students wrote this really beautiful piece about for her father to save her, who had passed away. I don't usually do the writing promtps in class, preferring to walk around and make sure the youth don't need help, but I did that day, and it was about Hasan. I shared it and both me and the young sista cried for hte people we had lost, and for the realities of carrying on in a world that too often takes the most precious pieces of our lives from us.

I am waiting for Hasan Shakur
to save me.
Eyes gleam as brightly as his bald head,
fire in his fingers
and the timbre of his voice,
raw as ripped knuckles.

I stand before a pack of dogs
frothing at their rabid mouths,
hungering for my brown flesh.
Back to the wall,
weight of the centuries pushing me down,
alone and blind scraping at the dark,
my knees begin to buckle.
at that very moment when i can take no more,
I feel Hasan's
massive hands lift me up,
braid my weight with the admonishment
"No time for sleep, little sista,
don't you know you have work to do?"

The smell of sweat, sulfur
and Senegal fill my nostrils,
liquid rage cascading over my head.
I am still tired and scared.
I am still bruised and fractured.
But I have enough strength
to stagger through another round,
eye swollen shut
but feet still moving.

Bathed in white,
not an angel
but the unholy baptism of death row,
too bright
to look directly at,
Hasan hovers at the edge
of my perception,
vigilant
for the next time
I falter.

This is rather belated, but wanted to let you know that I edited a special section in Left Turn Magazine www.leftturn.org in the last issue #28 April/May on alternatives to the prison industrial complex. It was a lot of work but I was really happy with how it turned out. There are articles from international movements building alternatives to incarceration, there is a main article on alternatives here in this country, and a piece on alternatives to the death penalty. I also wrote two short pieces for it.

It was an honor to work on this issue and to work with the writers and organizers I did, and to be able to have the space to envision different worlds here and now.

Check it out if you get the chance!

www.leftturn.org
or
http://leftturn.mayfirst.org/?q=currentissue

Words fail me. Another black man mowed down by the cops, on his wedding day, accused of nothing and they walk free. It is not surprising. It is not unusual. It is not even news. And that is what makes it unbearable.

My friend Ian wrote this below. I admire so much his work and his commitment, that of people out in the street. Our rage is our weapon. Use it.

hello friends,
i just wanted to say that today was a day of horrible news - the police who murdered another innocent Black man a little over a year ago, filling his car with 50 bullets, were aquitted on all counts by a judge. it is really hard to find the words to express how wrong it is, and how twisted one feels reading the judge's "legal" verdict.

i biked ten miles out to queens tonite to participate in a rally and march of maybe a couple thousand people. while many of those in attendance - not all - were the "same old radicals," (not to demean our dedication but sometimes the same things get said by / to the same few people, which can be tiring) what was truly inspiring and incredible were the number of people on the streets, bus drivers, in cars, taxi cabs, standing in front of salons, storefronts, bodegas - cheering, honking madly, banging on windows, shaking their fists and chanting along with the crowd. it is sadly telling of how so many knew how wrong the verdict was, how wrong and racist our "justice" system can be, and how elite it is, yet the these cops were told they legally did nothing wrong.

but it was amazing, walking under the train tracks with a huge group of people counting to 50, each number echoing off of the walls while people stuck in traffic across from us smiled and slammed on their horns with us. it's something i thought i should share.

keep fighting!
ian.

I am sick and procrastinating. Turiya and I have our Science Fiction, Race and Gender in Film class tonight. I have all my notes together, just need to organize them. Instead I am writing a livejournal. It feels like an eternity since I've written an update so much has happened, most of it feeling like endings, folks moving beyond, wondering what is going to happen next.

My mother left, after a month and a half visit, back to the road, her incessant roamings. I am so proud of her. She has a dream and is following it. It had been so long since I had her close, it feels that much more distant when I talk to her on the phone, echoes on the line. Raymond stayed for three weeks, and returned on Monday to Florida, to his family. Again, to get to see him, talk with him, take a walk, cook a meal, it was so different than being in a prison visiting room for eight years. To have that and then to not have it now, with a continent in between... You are happy for the good memories, but I guess humans are inherently greedy because we always want more. I am so exceptionally proud of him though. This transition is one of the hardest and one without a support system, one that few people know about or talk about, soemthing you are meant to be ashamed of. So many emotions. He is going to do so well.

And Christian and I are no longer together. I have never been able to get timing right in my life. I love him immensely and I miss him tremendously and I know this is best. And it doesn't make it a damn bit easier.

Luckily, I get to work with students who constantly inspire me, show me a bigger world connected to my bruised little heart, and it soothes a little like aloe. The students I work with at De La Salle High School are phenomenal. We had our last official class, and it made me so sad. But they performed at an Earth Day assembly at their school yesterday, and they tore it up. They claimed and owned the stage, and unfurled their voices big and bright. They are hilarious and brilliant and dedicated and talented and committed and determined and I am just so thankful to get to spend time with them. We're going to KBOO the community radio station here this Friday to record some of their pieces, I know I'll be listening to that at low quiet points.

I also did a double week residency at Mt. Scott Elementary School last week with fourth and sixth graders. Both of the teachers in the classes were incredible and the students were so wonderful. I didn't have a single bad day in either class, tehy were all just so invested and talented and interested. I realized I couldn't be a full time teacher. I have been thinking about it. Having a classroom to decorate and all. But I can't imagine working hard enough to give enough to the students.

So endings. Waiting for the beginnings to start, a new phase of everything. It's the held breath that hurts the lungs sometimes. Swim towards the light and break the calm surface.

Mumia Abu-Jamal, award winning journalist, activist, organizer, "voice of the voiceless" and resident of Pennsylvania's death row, was denied his appeal to the Third Circuit Court of Appeals. They waited almost an entire year to hand down that verdict, I remember the big protest we had outside the court the day the hearing happened (a hearing Mumia should have been allowed to appear at personally, but unfair courtroom restrictions would not allow it. It would have been his first in person court appears in over a decade).

The case of Mumia is so important to justice, to the state of things, and to me personally. My first protest I ever went to, at the age of 15 in Eugene, Oregon, was a Free Mumia protest. It was such a small protest now that I have been at gatherings with hundreds of thousands. But at the time it seemed massive.

The flyer had said to gather at the entrance to the University of Oregon. Unfamiliar with activist time, I had shown up about 20 minutes early, and had seen no one. I worried if I'd gotten the location wrong, if it had been cancelled, if it was really going to happen.

I had just begun my foray into political education, thanks to an internship I stumbled onto at a local social justice organization. My time in the office set in a creaky old building with pipes that rattled set the stage for the rest of my life. It was sitting in the frayed worn couches near the bay window that I first heard the words communism and socialism as more than just some dangerous evil that would devour me if it wanted. While typing up stories for the newsletter at the antiquated box of a computer, talk of the Zapatistas, political prisoners, Sandinistas, Central America, Cuba, apartheid, Assata Shakur, Malcolm X all swirled around me. I didn't know what the hell these people were talking about. But I knew they were individuals I already respected, who knew so much about things I had never dreamed existed. I knew I had to educate myself.

I asked my mentor, a young white man who wore cardigan sweaters and converse and looked more at home in a 50s car hop poster than organizing in support of farmworkers, timidly one day if he could recommend some books for me to read. He reached up without hesitation and handed me a small black book, with a dreadlocked man staring solemnly out of the cover. "You should really check this out, I think you might find some good stuff in here."

I started Mumia's Live From Death Row on the long bus ride home (I actually lived in another city, Springfield, so I had to transfer three times to get home). I stayed up until 3 in the morning, neglecting school work and my favorite show on tv, to finish the book. Mumia's words were elegant, poetic, searing and undeniable. He wrote about live on death row, vinettes about the people there with him, the supposed scum of the earth, he wrote them as humans, beautiful flawed tragic humans. He wrote about the larger prison industrial complex, wrote about why prisons exist and who benefits from them, not in safety but in real material dollars. And whose flesh is sold to make those dollars, poor and black and brown and illiterate and mentally delayed and never had a chance and nobody never listened to their voice. His book was not about him, he was the eyes, the ears, the nose, the mouth and the heart that drew it all together, linked connections I had never imagined, showed me the web of oppression that threaded through my entire life, tangling me without my realizing it. And he showed me how to begin to hack away at those threads. I believed and believe with all my heart Mumia when he says he's innocent. But his book and his commitment showed me that that is not the biggest question. The biggest question is who is guilty of what crimes, and why are those guilty of the worst atrocities against humanity rarely ever brought to justice?

Back at the gate to the University of Oregon, I looked up as about 10 young white people, some dreadlocked with patch work pants, a couple in all black with patches on their ripped up hoodies, came towards me, carrying signs that said "Free Mumia" and "Free All Political Prisoners". One young woman came up to me and asked, "Are you here for the Mumia protest?" I was so happy, I nodded my head vigorously. "Great," she said, handing me a sign, "We're almost ready to start."

In about 10 minutes, the group of 30 to 40 folks assembled set off down the street, marching through the business district around the University. I had never been in a crowd of people chanting and banging drums, yelling slogans, stopping traffic. I felt strong, and unstoppable. This is the power that people in the dilapadated office had talked about, the power that can stand up to bullets and batons and tanks and dictators and empires. The power of the people.

Someone pushed play on a boombox they had brought, and Mumia's rich voice, tempered with honey and with steel, burst from the speakers, rained down on the boutiques and pizza shops and on me. I had never heard Mumia's voice before. Listening to him read one of his commentaries he had written in prison, I knew why they didn't play Mumia's voice, why they were scared to let this radio journalist's voice free from the cage. You could not listen to Mumia's voice and not be moved by the power, the rationality and most of all the humanity in it. You could never believe this man was the rabid loose cannon crazy person they tried to paint him as. You couldn't hear Mumia's voice and not want to join in the fight to free him, and the fight to make sure there would be no more Mumia's on death rows ever again.

As he closed out his commentary, "Live from death row, this is Mumia Abu-Jamal," I hoisted my Free Mumia NOW sign as high as I could, and yelled with all my might with the dozens of throats around me, "Brick by brick, wall by wall we're going to free Mumia Abu-Jamal."

I screamed the same chant 13 years later, in front of the Third Circuit Court of Appeals last May as they heard evidence to decide Mumia's fate. What they don't understand, and what we have to, is that is is not their decision. The decision, as always, rests with the people, who have the real power. I still believe wholeheartedly in the chant, and I know you do too. Now is the time to make our voices and our determination heard.


Written by Hans Bennett
On March 27, the US Third Circuit Court of Appeals ruled against granting a new guilt-phase trial to world-famous journalist and death row prisoner Mumia Abu-Jamal.While ruling against the three issues that could have led to a new guilt-phase trial, the court affirmed US District Court Judge Yohn's2001 decision overturning the death sentence. If the District Attorney wants to re-instate the death sentence, the DA must call for a new penalty-phase jury trial that would be limited to the question of life in prison without a chance of parole or a re-instatement of the death sentence.

Outraged by this decision, Abu-Jamal’s supporters around the world held “day after” protests, and are now organizing a mass demonstration in Philadelphia on April 19, just days before the PA Presidential Primary Election. Simultaneously, Abu-Jamal is appealing the court ruling“en banc” to the entire Third Circuit, and if unsuccessful there, he will appeal to the US Supreme Court, in an effort to be granted a new guilt-phase trial.

At this critical juncture in Abu-Jamal’s case, an explosive new book is set for release in May, titled “The Framing of Mumia Abu-Jamal,” by J. Patrick O’Connor, and published by Lawrence Hill Books. O’Connor explains that he “was an associate editor for TV Guide at its headquarters in nearby Radnor, Pennsylvania during the time Officer Faulkner was killed and Abu-Jamal was put on trial and convicted of murdering him. Sometime in the mid-1990s I began hearing and seeing the ‘Free Mumia’ slogan. In 1996, when HBO premiered the one-hour documentary ‘Mumia Abu-Jamal: A Case for Reasonable Doubt?’, I developed some questions about the verdict and certainly the fairness of his trial.” Soon, O’Connor had “read all the trial transcripts as well as all of the transcripts from Abu-Jamal’s Post‑Conviction Relief Act hearings that were held in 1995, and continued in 1996 and 1997. I also read all the contemporaneous newspaper articles from The Philadelphia Inquirer and Philadelphia Daily News, as well as all the books published about the case.”

In his new book, O’Connor argues that Abu-Jamal was clearly framed by police, and that the actual shooter was a man named Kenneth Freeman. O’Connor criticizes the local media, who, he says “bought intothe prosecution’s story line early on and has never been able to see this case for what it is: a framing of an innocent and peace loving man.”

The sky is
So hot
My hands hang heavy as clay
Melting away

You will not win

Back sprouts knots
Round like the grapes I pick
Endless as the grapes
As my children’s hunger

I long for my mother’s cool hands
On the back of my neck

I envision my children’s mouths
When I want to lay down
Plant myself in the moist earth
And wither
From lack of sunlight

The heavens are burning down

No matter how much
The sky paints my flesh
Sienna

I never taste the sun
Smiling down on me

Maybe there is no sun
anymore

Yesterday morning, my alarm went off at 4:15 in the morning. Usually I wake up disoriented when my alarm goes off, especially when it's still dark outside, and it takes me a few minutes to reorient. But yesterday I woke up instantly, overpowered by excitement and anticipation. That's because yesterday is the day I finally got to pick up my friend Raymond, who has been incarcerated for exactly 90 months (seven and a half years, not counting the time he did in county jail, though he most certainly and rightfully does count it), and take him home

I picked up Ray's friend Erin and then our friend Sean who flew up from the Bay area. We drove to Salem in the complete darkness. I was running on adrenaline and didn't have any caffeine until after we got to Salem. We talked some but there were long periods where we were all silent, hopeful and anxious, I think, and lost in our own thoughts.

We got to the prison right at 6:20 am, as Raymond had said to. Sean and Erin went and buzzed teh intercom at the gate, and we were told to wait in our car. We sat in the car for about 30 minutes. Both Sean and Erin were smart and had brought reading material. I had nothing. I doubt I could have focused enough on words on a page enough to read anything, though. Instead, I stared at the gate, imagining what Ray was doing. I pictured that he probably only got a couple hours of sleep if any, so full of so many emotions about finally getting out. He would have gotten up, finished packing up or giving away all of his stuff. He would have showered and gotten himself ready. I imagined him taking his time, knowing it would be the last time he would ever do that routine in prison again. I wondered if he looked around, at the cell, or if his mind was already beyond it. Finally, the guards would come to get him. He would walk out, saying goodbye to the men he had so much time with. Get to processing and discharge, suffer through more bureacracy and paperwork and tedium and control. Get his street clothes (bought by the prison at Value Village), grab his small pack of things he was taking with him, and walk towards the door. Finally, heart in chest, he would walk through the slamming metal door, to the processing center, finally through the gate, past the fences and concertina wire, into our arms with whoops and hugs and happiness.

The minute we saw Raymond through the fence we all jumped out of the car, waving like crazy. We ran up to the gate he was just about to come through, cameras out, huge grins on our faces. We took turns hugging him and jumping and dancing, and taking pictures. It was most definitely one of the happiest moments of my life.


Ray coming home


Me, Raymond and Sean

We drove away from the prison, blasting the "Raymond breaking out of prison" mix cds that Sean had made for him. We mostly did mundane things yesterday: got food (Ray getting to order whatever he wanted for the first time in 8 years), went shopping at a ton of different stores (Ray picking out his own clothes for the first time in 8 years), getting Ray squared away in terms of his "post prison supervision" (not parole because Oregon doesn't have parole, though everyone has been hardpressed to explain any difference to me, other than no one in prison gets out of prison early for good behavior, thanks to mandatory minimums and Measure 11), hanging out at Erin's house and looking at Ray's art (Ray seeing his work on a computer and on the internet for hte first time), going to an arcade (Ray's smiling bright face in front of a video game next to his best friend Sean for the first time in 8 years). It was a mundane day and the most magical and magnificient day.


Raymond, Erin and Sean pretending to be baffled by the mp3 player


Yep, a brotha was hungry


While Ray tried on clothes, we found ways to amuse ourselves, like Sean rocking the size 20 sneaks

Raymond is still not sure if he's going to get to get his supervision transferred to Florida, where his parents are and where he most desperately wants to be, to see them again. But the good news is he doesn't have to stay in a halfway house like we worried. They approved him to stay with me! Which is so wonderful. Now I have two houseguests and family members here with me, Ray and my mom. I thought I would only get to spend yesterday with Ray before he got on the plane. I know it's terribly selfish but I'm so glad that I get to spend an extra week hanging out with him outside of a prison visiting room. Just to get to hug him whenever I want, to do whatever we want, to eat whatever we want while we hang out is indescribable. Something you take for granted completely until it's taken away from you, and then you value it like a precious jewel.


Me and Ray acting a fool cuz that's what friends do

Yep. It hailed while we stayed at the beach. Snowed as we left Portland and drove up, and then it hailed while we were up there. Thank you, global warming.

Regardless we all had a good time. Turiya and I and the kids and mom went to the beach a couple times and hung out, went out for food on Thursday. We stayed at this really cool motel that was super kitchy, tons of antiques and strange nautical stuff, fish painted all over the place. It was corny but fun, and mom enjoyed it, which was nice. Turiya and I actually also got some time to hang out that wasn't work related. We'be been spending tons of time together with each other working on our upcoming sci fi class (three days and counting) but haven't had really any time to chill, so that was nice.


Me and my mom at the beach


me and mom, Turiya, Elijah and EKela at the beach


The kids playing


Good Sista/Bad Sista Take a Holiday!

Turiya and the kids and her partner Brian stayed at the beach for longer, but mom and I headed back on Thursday, cause i had a bunch of stuff i wanted to take care of. I've had a productive time, and I feel like Turiya and my class is in good shape. But it's been hectic, and een though I'm so lucky and honored to be doing exactly what I want, it's still sometimes hard cause I feel overwhelmed. Too much of a good thing. Still looking for a roommate, and when I find one, it'll take some of the pressure off, so I won't have to take on so much to try to make sure I pay the mortgage payment.

The most exciting thing for me though is that my friend and family Raymond is getting out of prison tomorrow! We are leaving at 5 in the morning to go pick him up, me and two of his other friends. It's been 90 months, thanks to Oregon's mandatory minimum laws that say you have to do the full time that you are convicted of. He is such a beautiful person and has done so much work on himself, cleaned his soul up and let it shine so brightly, in the midst of the muck and the mire.

Me and Ray's friend Erin went to see him on Saturday, to figure out plans for today and just maek sure that everything was set. And also to help pass the time: I can imagine how ever minute probably feels like a year as he gets down to hours left. He was so excited and talked nonstop the entire visit. Excited and nervous and scared and ecstatic.

The visit itself was really kinda crazy, going through the process I've been doing once or twice a month for the past six months, and knowing each time I do it, it's the last time I'm going to do it. Everything was more difficult,t he check in process took forever, and getting his property after the visit and getting out was horrible, the guards were fucking with us and other people... It was like they wanted to remind me why I never want to go back to another prison again. I can't even imagine what it has been like for Ray after 8 years, or Sundiata Acoli after 33, or David Gilbert after 26, or Mumia, or Haramia KiNassor with 10 years on death row... I just know how wonderful it's going to be to get to take Raymond away with me finally, away from that place and back to him trying to reconstruct the life he was snatched from for so long. This is only the third time I've gotten to welcome someone home that I've written to, and the only other person I got to meet at the gate was Rob Thaxton, aka Rob los Ricos, Chicano anarchist political prisoner. I have so many times watched prisoners coming out and meeting their families, walking away free, as I waited to get in to visit someone I loved, and ached to be that person. I have listened to people talk about how their loved one only has a week left, or a day left, in visiting rooms, and been so saddened in the heart by the collective years of prison facing so many people. And now I am that person. And Raymond will walk free, and that is a beautiful thing. And so many others will remain behind bars, and that is one of the ugliest things I can imagine.

I realized reading back through my past journals, I haven't really written about my mom's visit with me at all. My mom has been here since the end fo February staying with me, and it's been so incredible. I was really excited before she came, but a little apprehensive. After all, we haven't spent this much time together since I left home at 16. But it's been so wonderful. My mom and I have been through all sorts of drama and ups and downs, but I really appreciate all that because it brought us to this place, where we are able to really talk openly and support each other, and respect one another for who we are.

I feel badly though that I've been so super busy, running from one of my million projects to the next, that I haven't really gotten to take her anywhere or see much of Portland. Mostlys he and I just talk, cook (okay, I occassionally cook, she bakes bomb ass vegan treats that are so incredible no one can tell they're vegan), play games (she has gotten me so hooked on word games again, a passion of hers - I remember playing scrabble pretty much right after I learned to spell), and watch movies. We did get out to my friend Liz's bookstore in St. John's last weekend, The St. John's Booksellers, and we had a really amazing day just exploring St. John's, going thrifting, of course exploring the bookstore (another passion mom passed on to me - we both left with a armload of books), and playing word games.

Now I will play some word games iwth my mom, boggle, upwords, bananagrams, pretty much anything. But I refuse to play scrabble with her. That is the game she loves the most and the one that traumatized me as a child. As a competitive person, it is really damaging to your ego to constantly lose, and if you play scrabble with my mom, unless you're a tournament champion, that's what's going to happen. She's insane with it. And she's also kinda mean when she plays, she'll challenge every word you put down and talk shit in a nice grandma kinda way. I mean, I remember being seven and playing a word and she was like "If it's not in the scrabble dictionary, it doesn't count, take it off." Not in a vindictive way but my mama can definitely never be accused of ever having let anyone win a game of scrabble (well a game of anything really). So I don't play scrabble with my mom anymore, and I warn others against doing it as well (though some, like my ex Steve are unwise and foolishly don't heed my warnings. He had to find out the hard way. I'm sure every time the word scrabble is mentioned, he still gets that twitch in his left eye).

Luckily for mom, Liz and Liz's bookstore partner Nina and Nina's mom all love scrabble. So we set up the board and played right in the store, and yes, I did play one game with my mother, which literally hasn't happened in probably 10 years or more. When I was young, my mom and her three friends Miss Dawn, Miss Julie adn Mr. Clayton (even as a 28 year old woman I still call them that in my mind) would have game night pretty much every week and they'd let me play and it was just so much fun. I loved playing the games, and I also just loved being treated with respect, like a grown up (except for those nights when I got super obnoxious and got sent off to bed). Playing in the store with the other folks, it just kind of reminded me of that, so I got all sentimental and threw down my tiles. My mom and I ended up tying for first place, and I wisely walked away, knowing that was the best I could hope for, and taking my tie as a win. Mom ended up playing for four more hours, cause different folks came into the store and then sat down to play. Me and Liz played trivial pursuit. It was really cool, and so many of the folks who came in were such characters, I kinda felt like I was in a PG 13 version of Clerks.

Today me and mom and Turiya and my godkids are heading out to the beach. I guess they all go every year (Turiya's partner Brian is driving up tomorrow, couldn't get off work early), and Turiya invited me and my mom along, which I'm excited about, just to show my mom a little more of the stuff around here, so she can have some stories to tell. Of course getting me to play scrabble is a pretty big story in and of itself.

Other than that, things have been super hectic and good. Turiya and my science fiction, race, gender in film class at PSU starts on Wednesday, and we're just workign on organizing the articles and stories and films, trying to figure out what makes sense to do when. I never realized before there was so much work put into allt he classes I took in college. I guess once you've got it down and you teach it a few times, it isn't much work, but making a new class from scratch is hella hard work.

My environmental justice and spoken word class I"m facilitating at De La Salle High School last week was so awesome. I'm doing it with this really wonderful group OPAL (Organizing People-Activating Leaders), grassroots poc-led environmental justice organization. the executive director Kevin came out and we did a gentrification/urban renewal tour of North and Northeast Portland with the students (the students who, by the way, had the day off from school and the majority of them came in on their day off, some of them after getting up at 4 in the morning to go see Barack Obama speak. They all volunteer to do this class after school, they aren't getting any credit for it, and they are all really dedicated, brilliant, insightful and amazing poets. They just blow me away and inspire me so much). It was really informative and depressing and empoewring to have more of a technical knowledge about gentrification and to make concrete with real examples we all know and walk past of hte stuff we've been studying and exploring and writing about.

There's so much work to do yall...

Held Breah

I hear protestors in the street
Feet stomping in
Rhythm
With heart beats and fists
The smell of Bush burning
In effigy gasoline
Fills my nostrils so much
Fuel and where is
The match the sound
Of flint on tinder whoosh
Of air sucked into
A vaccum and the smoldering
Knowledge that something
Must change we do
Not have enough water
To star anew nor enough
Fire to burn
This world clean

by Walidah Imarisha

This summer I will be teaching my first solo class at Portland State University! It is called Black Women in Popular Culture, and the information is below. Please pass the word on to any folks you know taking summer classes at PSU!

Black Women in Popular Culture
CRN 82701 BST 410 002
Second Summer Session
July 21 – Aug. 15, 2008
10:30-12:50 pm MTWR
Room: CH 71
Instructor: Walidah Imarisha

Course Description: An examination of the treatment, perception and characterization of black women in mainstream popular culture, including film, television, magazines and books. Will also explore examples of alternative contemporary images created by black women. The impact of these images on black women, their issues and lives will be analyzed.


http://sesweb.ses.pdx.edu/summer/schedule_display.cfm

This is the first day I've had in more than a week to catch my breath. I wish I had had more time to write last week, as I was doing a double residency at Mt. Scott Elementary school with two classes of fifth graders, and each day was totally different, tons of joys and surprises and great poems and sweet kids and touching and heart breaking stories... But by the time I got home after being at the school for almost 3 hours, I would pass out for a nap, and then get up and do my other work or rush to a meeting... I'm telling yall, you better give it up for the teachers, I don't know how they do it 8 hours a day with 30 or 40 kids, and then get up the next day and do it again. The kids wore me out!

And they were great kids, all 50 of them. Each class was really distinct, with different energies and flows. Even though I came with the same lesson plan for both, they ended up being pretty different, because they would move at different paces, or be more interested in different exercises, so I ended up adapted it to them. We did a lot of descriptive writing, about themselves, their community, people and places. The last day on Friday we wrote superhero poems! They really loved that!

And all of the students were so amazing. I haven't worked with kids that young in a while, mostly with high school students. I like high school because you can get into more political and complex issues (though one of the fifth graders did say he wanted to write a poem to George Bush about what a bad job he was doing -- brought a tear to my eye it did!). But I forgot how open and excited kids are when they are younger, how much they want to share, how much attention they have to give, how interested they are in things. And like I said they came out with some incredible poems. So many of them had word choice down, they had structure, they wrote sad poems and funny poems and sweet poems and imaginative poems and poems that didn't make no kinds of sense, and they were all wonderful.

And on the last day both of the classes spontaneously did this go around about what they liked best about hte workshops, and I just teared up both times. They wrote me little notes and cards, and wrote me poems and drew me pictures. One girl even made me a necklace with these flower beads that spelled poetry. I love doing residencies because I get reinspired, and get my hope renewed. But it's so hard to leave. I wonder about students from the first residency I did almost 10 years ago - where are they now? What are they doing? Did they keep up with their writing? Youth have to deal with so many issues, some of them so young. It is incredible to see how they get through it and still have so much life and love, and it worries me incredibly for their futures, for what is to come. Scars don't usually just fade away, as I have learned the hard way.

It's actually been a time of endings for me. Turiya and my Black Feminism class at PSU is drawing to a close tomorrow. Again, a completely different setting and group, but one that renewed my hope and faith in people's ability to grow and learn and commit to change. Turiya tells me I have been spoiled by my first college class, because this group of folks is so dedicated and interested and awesome. And I know they are.

Last week we did final presentations, and we're doing the rest this week. I was again brought to tears (and yall know how hard it is to make a bad sista cry) by all of their presentations. They shared poems, songs, and collages and paintings they had done around the concepts we studied this quarter. We wanted them to do a creative final project, and we left it open, so they could bring whatever parts of themselves they wanted to, to really take the material inside and make it their own. And they did. It was really beautiful to watch. I feel really honored to have this amazing opportunity, and it's due to Turiya, bringing me in and supporting me and working with me on this. I love my good sista.

Now as we're finishing up this class, we are working on finalizing our next one, Science Fiction, Race and Gender in Film. Yep, our geek flags are out in full force. Im actually really excited. We've been doing a lot fo readings, watching different films, grouping things together in different ways. I think this class has the potential to be a really fun way to do an interrogation of popular culture and power and identity. I'm just a little bit stressed because we are still working on putting it together, and classes started April 2 for us. I don't know how college professors do it either, the pace is so fast paced. I marvel at Turiya who is teaching two other classes in addition to ours this quarter, and doing a bunch of other shit. I can barely keep straight all the stuff I have to and keep up with my school work (my first packet of this semester is due this week, wish me luck!)

Lastly on Saturday I hosted part of hte anti war rally they had here. It went really amazingly well. Even though it rained like a mutha, and even HAILED (yep hailed) during the march, there were tons of folks out. I couldn't even count them all or see them all, and spirits were high. It was really nice to be asked to do , cool to have a role there and feel like I was in some small way contributing, even though I wasn't involved in the planning of it. People put a lot of time and work into it, and it turned out great. Let me tell you though, my legs were sore as hell yesterday after running on and off stage and then marching around in the rain!

I'm going to be hosting part of the World War None Peace Music Festival this Saturday (info below), and then part of the Bring the Troops Home Now Stop All Wars Rally also the same day. The music will start at 11:30 am, and go until 2, the rally's going to start at 2, has a great line up of speakers. The musicians are going to be amazing, Triple Gripp, the hardest working brotha in indy hip hop Mic Crenshaw, and Siren Echo's own Syndel, as well as others. It's goign to be really awesome. I'm super excited to host it, and I hope to see yall there!

Stop the War, Bring the Troops Home Now!

March 15 is fast approaching! Mark your calendars now and plan to join PDX Peace in the South Park Blocks for World Without War: a day of resistance and hope.


Where: South Park Blocks (SW Park and Madison), Portland Oregon
When: Saturday, March 15, 2008
10:00-6:00 Action Camp featuring workshops, exhibits, performances, music and more!
2:00 Rally and March

We've got a fabulous rally line-up including inspiring local and
nationally-known activists working for a world without war. Speakers
include:

* Zahra Sultan, Iraqi Social Worker, director of Saverefugees.org
* Bob Watada, father of Lt. Ehren Watada, the first Commissioned Officer to refuse deployment to Iraq
* Tom Chamberlain, President of Oregon AFL-CIO
* Andrea Cano, Executive Director, Oregon Farm Worker Ministry
* Youth organizers Terell Wilson, freshman at Madison H.S. and Lizo Wallace, United Voices Youth Program
* Barbara Dudley, Professor in the Hatfield School of Government, former Executive Director of Greenpeace USA.

The rally will be hosted by spoken word artist Walidah Imarisha and Megan Brooker of the PDX Peace Coalition and Military Families Speak Out.

Bring your friends and family! Come early to take part in the Action
Camp.

World War None: the PDX Peace Music Festival
In addition to our all day Action Camp and the 2pm March and Rally, we have an amazing anti-war music line-up including March Forth Marching Band, Mic Crenshaw, Commotion with Ben Darwish, Dave Rovics and more. So be sure to come down for the whole day (10-6) to catch it all.

www.pdxpeace.org
www.myspace.com/worldwarnonemusicfestival2008

Had my housewarming party Saturday night and it was so wonderful! Was so nice to have different folks in my life from different walks and eras of my Portland life, and have them in my home. Plus my mom was here, and that was great cause some of them she'd only heard about for years, she'd never met them. And Christian also got to meet folks, which was also nice cause folks have been hearing about him for months and so they finally got to meet him. It was such a fun evening, chill and laid back. I realize I am not much of a partier anymore, and given that a lot of my friends now have kids with early bed times, things tend to end around 10 or 11 with me. Plus, I wasn't having no raging kegger in my new house, folks ain't tearing my place up! But people brought wonderful thoughtful gifts and really good food and drinks and we just had a nice evening, exactly what I wanted.



My mom (who is truly the bestest mommy in the world) and my friend Dan. Dan actually knows people that my mom housesat for when she lived in Alaska -- small world!



Super cute picture of Turiya (with her new awesome haircut that makes her look more like when I met her 10 years ago) and Brian - if they hadn't taken me into their house and given me the time and space when I first moved here and been so loving and supportive, I wouldn't have been able to take time to find my home!



My friends Caylor, Paul and Liz (who brought vegan brownies, god bless her!!)



My godson Elijah watching me unwrap one of my great gifts



My friend Jason's two-year-old helping me open my gifts - how would I have done it without him?



My beautfiul sistafriend Marlena, always documenting

It's been so wonderful having my mom here. She's been so supportive, cooking and cleaning (even when I tell her not to clean up after my mess!) and helping get ready for the party, running errands with me, giving me advice and being my sounding board, and just being awesome in general. She's been telling stories about our family a lot, and that's been nice. I had actually written this piece about my grandfather when I was away at Goddard that I had been wanting to share with her, but really nervous about it, as it talks a lot about different issues of mental illness, abandonment, racism and other stuff in our family. It's really the first personal in depth piece I've written about my family. I have heard so many horror stories of writers who publish stories and half their family stops talking to them. So I was nervous about my mother's reaction. But she was so supportive. She said that I captured it well, it was well-written and organized, and that it was being true to what I knew to be the truth, which is all she could ask for. It meant so much to me to have her support like that. My mom has always been like that -- even if she disagrees with some of the things we're saying as her children, as long as we have integrity and principles, she supports us.

I just started this amazing four class workshop at De La Salle High School here, with OPAL, which is an environmental justice organization. THe workshops focus on environmental justice and spoken word. All the students chose to be there, and most of them are already poets and writers, and some of them are already involved in different political issues, which is so nice, I can't tell you. It's so powerful to be with folks who want to be there and who are interested and committed to what you are working on. We had our first class last Friday and it went so much better than I hoped. The pieces they wrote in class were so amazing and moving, I can't wait to see waht they come up with later. And it was such a fun curriculum to design, because it's exactly what I want to do, politics and writing together, and we're doing fun stuff like having them take pictures around their neighborhood and then writing about it from there. I'm super excited about it, and that's something nice to feel.

And a very small personal triumph - I got my car reassembled. Poor Speedy Marie had driven across the continent and held together like a trooper. Then when she got here to the wet wet northwest, she ended up springing three different leaks. IT's taken two months to get them all plugged up and fixed, during which time I had no backseat, the carpets were all pulled up and I had to run the heater at high constantly, so it was sweltering. This is the first day my baby is all back together and leak free. The guy who did it was great, though. It was originally going to cost like 600 bucks, and I told him I was broke, so he did it this longer way, but in the end it didn't cost me anything close like it would have before, so that was awesome. Cool to meet good people who don't cheat you in this capitalist society... That's me just tryna to make it deep yall.

I got home from Goddard and stepped up into a whirlwind of things I needed to do. The most exciting one is clean my whole place. Now, why you might ask, is that the most exciting thing I've done this week? Well, it's exciting because my mother is coming to visit and that's why I was cleaning! Christian and I are driving down to Eugene to pick up the rest of his stuff and visit folks, and then my mom is going to follow us back up in her vehicle. It's a van. A van that my mom lives in. Nope it's not the beginning to an old SNL reference. My awesome brave adventorous independent mom decided that since her dream had always been to drive around the country and visit people and see everything, she was gonna do it before she was too old (starting this year, at 66). And she's finally worked her way over to the west coast and to see me! I'm so excited. I haven't seen my mom since August when I went down to see her in Georgia, and we had the best visit we've ever had I think. I'm so excited for her to see my new place. And she'll be here for six weeks. Six weeks, you might say, wow that's a long time. And you would be correct my friend. But instead of being scared about spending six weeks with my mother, I'm pretty overwhelmingly excited about the idea of getting to see her everyday, because our visits are always so short. Course, ask me again on week five and a half!

The rest of my time in Goddard was, thankfully, brief. I had gotten permission to leave early because I had to get ready for my Black Feminism class, and because the last day on Monday was just a one hour closing. So I headed out Sunday night and got back here around 10:30. I hadn't told Christian I was coming back, though I had wanted to make sure he'd be at the house, so I made up some elaborate lie about a friend coming over to check it out to see about being a roommate. He said he didn'te ven question it until twenty minutes before I pulled up, and even then he wasn't sure. Regardless, he was happy that I came home early, and so was I. It was so nice to curl up in bed with my partner and watch my movies, and have my stuff around me, and not have to worry what was going to come out of nowhere at me next.

Monday I just relaxed and tried to recharge, and get ready for Turiya and my Black Feminism class on Tuesday, which was wonderful. Even though there were technical difficulties online and everyone hadn't been able to do all the readings, we had a wonderful discussion and a great class. Being at Goddard, a different institution of higher learning, for that week, and seeing how litlte people, especially white people, were interested or willing to engage, as a collective, on issues of identity, race, class, gender, power, etc., it was so wonderful coming back to our class, where there are so many brilliant, insightful, active and engaged folks there, who really work with the material and really seem to care about the issues. I know I have been utterly spoiled by this class, because Turiya keeps telling me they're exceptional, and don't expect this on the regular. Well, I'll just enjoy it while I have it!

Wednesday I was feeling sick, rundown, but I had a ton of stuff to do. Unfortunately, I didn't make it to a miniscule portion of it. The wonderful place I did make it was over to Turiya's, to hang out with her and the kids and Brian, which was so nice. I had missed them all so much. Even crazy ass Sebastian, who promptly began gnawing on my wrist the minute he saw me. He is now officially huge! My goodness, I think of the tiny kitten I pulled out from under the house who could fit in my hand and now I see this cat... Well, they really do grow up so quickly don't they? [sniff] Anyway I had a great time with my family, it was so grounding and nice to come back to. And Turiya had bought Rock Band, which I am now officially in love with! Christian and I formed a duo band and went on a world tour. Sure we got booed off the stage, but it's not about that, man, it's about hte music.

Yesterday was an insane day. I had a list longer than my arm of stuff I had to do before we leave this morning for Eugene (one of them being write this journal - check!) However, Christian was a lifesaver, got up early with me and helped me all through the day, and I was feeling like it was manageable, we could do this... until I remembered three hours before that I had a workshop to teach last night! I literally almost had a breakdown. Luckily, I had already planned out hte class ahead of time, but the idea of getting dressed in nice clothes, going out, teaching fourth through sixth graders and their parents, was just too much for me to fathom at that moment.

But I went, and I am so glad I did. It was such a fun and wonderful experience. The lesson plan I made went right out hte window, because it relied a lot on the students sharing their work. Usually kids that age are eager to share, but maybe it was the presence of their parents in the workshop (which I think is a brilliant idea, by the way. Community of Writers, an organization here that sends writers into the schools, puts together these Wright Nights, where the parents and the students take a class with a writer, and I think it's such a great idea), but these kids were not down to share in the large group. So I switched it up, had tehm write about their favorite person in the neighborhood individually, then write group poems at the tables they were at, and then designate one person to share them. Well, apparently they liked the process and the group poems a lot, becuase then they all wanted to read them! It was really fun, they came out with some great pieces, and it was just nice to watch them create and be so excited and engaged. One young girl was writing her solo piece, and was just laughing and smiling to herself while she did. Makes me remember the joys of writing.

And now I gotta bounce, get dressed and hit the road, so I can go see my friends down in Eugene. Next stop, Mommyland!!!

I was having a really good day today here at Goddard. I am sitting in a workshop on nonfiction, and my friend here read a piece about working at an abortion clinic that was incredibly medical and detached, detailed in the extreme to gory, and at the end I didn’t know what the point was, except to retraumatize women who had had abortions. Nothing is more disturbing than having your day derailed by something outside of yourself that burrows under your skin and you can’t dig out.

This is the last day of classes at Goddard. We had our last advising session this morning. I was going to write about the feedback and support I got on the section of my book I submitted, and how inspired and determined I am to go home and really push myself as a writer. Then commencement for the graduating students. It was incredibly moving. I wanted to write more about that, how it touched me when I didn’t expect to, and how this guy made this hilarious joke about getting editing tips from an iguana in a drunken conversation, the punchline being “and I got some good feedback.” I wanted to write about getting to go home soon, and be in my bed, and how much I miss Christian and his guitar and his hands, how much I am looking forward to seeing my mother who is coming to visit next week.

I wanted to write about all of this. But right now I just want to throw my stuff in the car and drive with the stereo at full blast.

Being a Writer

I am feeling much better than I have the past few days. I had some sort of flu/stomach virus/sumthin ugly thing (poor Christian had it first and I wasn't properly understanding until I got hit with it as well) that has made the past few days very difficult, ontop of the already present issues I wrote some about in my last blog (incidentally, one woman in my class was like, "So do you JUST want to read about race?" It was really the just that pissed me off, like if I did, that wouldn't be a valid area of study that would touch on all the other important issues that we deal with in our society. Fucking justs). Thanks to everyone who posted up about my last blog entry, especially Darren, who wrote such a wonderful in depth and thoughtful response. But all of you, thank you so much family for hollering at a sista and letting her know she wasn't crazy.

Yeah and like I said, I mean I'm not going anywhere. Ima get my degree. Moving on up, moving on up! For realz, though, I agree so much with Turiya and her dad about picking your battles. I never used to do that, I used to go at every incident, every comment, every moment that arose as if it was the final battle, hit it with everything I had. And I realized that I don't have the energy to sustain that. This battle to build a new society is going to take at least the majority of my lifetime, realistically I won't be here to see the end. So I gotta make sure I got enough energy to make it the long way. That's something I learned a lot from my good sista Turiya, about conserving your energy, so that when battles come along that you have to fight, that are incredibly important, that are winnable, you can recognize them, fight them and have enough perspective to be able to plan your attack. See, it's hard to teach a bad sista new tricks, but not impossible.

Today is actually a really good day here at Goddard. We had a great advising session in the morning, and then I did a really useful workshop in the afternoon where we did a series of different writing prompts around the same idea. At first, I wasn't at all interested in the idea, but as each prompt went on I found I was refining it more and more and pulling out what was most important. The last prompt was to write a letter to someone, and I ended up picking my maternal grandfather, which was a trip because I don't remember him and I don't really think about him much. I've definitely never written about him, because I think there's nothing there. Well I ended up writing about a page in 15 minutes, just about him and the military and my mom and our family andt he idea of silence and what it means. And then after the class was over, I wolfed down lunch and ran to write more on it.

I think what i loved about today is it made me realize that I am a writer, and that i love being a writer. That moment of inspiration, that moment when you realize that you actually have so much to say about this topic and that it's important (at the very least to you), is a beautiful space to be in. I'm glad I got to have one of those moments to remind me why I'm here and going through all this, and also to remind me of the power of writing. Writing won't make a revolution but maybe, just maybe, if you're lucky, your writing will help someone get through the day,s o they have enough energy to get up tomorrow and struggle some more.