Free Form Open Mic
Featuring
The Poetry (and everyskinnytree) of Abigail Perez Jimenez
November 20th
8pm-?
@ MHGS
2501 Elliott Avenue
Seattle, Washington
98121
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Anti empiritanical Mexicredentials notwithstanding,
how do we stand?
Economically, empirically ecclesiologically?
Evidently there are lots of good ideas about sustainable living, many of which have to do with reviving the idea of a kind of victory garden. There is a new P-Patch in my neighborhood--it seems to have sprouted over night! As my Aussie friends say: Goodonya, P-Patch.
During a recent discussion regarding the "Evils of the American Empire" Such gardens were given as proof that "we" will pool our resources and learn to subvert our empirical (there wasn't a better word for the way I feel about it. I made one up: empiritanical is part empire, part puritan, part tyrannical) tendencies.
Admittedly, I am often hopeful that I belong in this "we" who "shall be saved". I am unabashedly American in so many many ways... And yet I also think of the "we" who "shall overcome" because I am Mexican. Go ahead, say it... you know you want to:
"I didn't know she was Mexican."
"Really? Like part Mexican? Or what?"
"How much Mexican blood do you have?"
"Wait, you were born here though..."
"Do you speak Spanish?"
Argue against my Mexicredentials all you want
I don't really (ever) want to engage such comments except to say this:
You want to know how Mexican I am?
I am just enough Mexican to think of Mexico first. I am Mexican first.
Sure you can tell me (one woman said it right to my face) that "Our community gardens will save us!" Go on and say it over and over again. Tell me--even though I live in an apartment now because I am losing my house and property in my divorce.
Tell me gardens are going to be our salvation--because its Wednesday, not Sunday: Wednesday is different from Sunday because Wednesday is not the day on which you corporately confess that Jesus Christ happens to be our Salvation...
Which begs the question: what exactly do you think we need salvation from? Hunger, famine, scurvy? And why do "we" need to be saved at all, isn't it that, the most empirical of our erroneous theological underpinnings, the most elitist thing we can hope for: to rescue ourselves without regard for the larger suffering? The suffering of all Creation?
And am I part of the "us" of which you speak, even after you discover my whiteness comes and goes even though it is the part that shows?
Who knows, maybe more than half of my genes are from Mexico... Those big "B"s tend to dominate. Nevertheless, all of my concern is for immigration reform... and not "immigration reform now!", but maybe even yesterday! Imagine what would happen if our national understanding about immigration reform could acknowledge the fact that the border crossed a lot of "us." All that fertile land on which your community (victory?) gardens grow may be given back to the people who lived on it first... Am I blowing your mind yet? Would you be totally effed? But Damn. Oh, wait... maybe you're not completely offended yet. That's probably good... I guess.
I'm not thinking of being saved--now that I'm $60,000 indebted to the government for loaning me the money to develop a satisfactory soteriology I don't worry about that. I worry about holding on: to the best parts of my self so I can give back, holding on to enough money (instead of saving) on groceries so I can pay rent... Are you still with me?
You can tell me what you want to do about the danger "we" are in and saving "us" but I will usually think first of Mexico and drug wars and dirty water... then I think of Mexicans like me, living on this side of the border: Third generation, accidentally accented. And our passion for those just one generation behind us: still scrimping and pinching pennies to pay for water to drink or bathe--how can anyone imagine having water with which to grow these gardens of which you speak? How can we imagine owning land or even paying rent on land enough to plant enough to feed our families? And then there is the matter of getting onto (should I say into?) this fertile land of which you speak. You don't want my family members driving through Arizona, much less crawling into California.
Are you so mad you could spit? I am, but I'm saving myself the trouble.
I sat in the meeting, one of two women of color--we were the only folks owning up to our minority status, if there were others they didn't speak up so I can't say anything about them here. The other woman, my elder and a beautiful, trustworthy woman, spoke about her concern for other countries where gardens are not the answer. And as soon as she did a white man spoke about American status and soil being ruined should our reliance on fossil fuels catch up with us. He said that soon we would all be living on barren land and soon all the white folks stateside would suffer as those in Darfur.
I asked him to reconsider that we, as privileged Americans, might offer help to countries like Darfur before that happens. I mentioned that we might not turn inward again and again but think of those less fortunate before we worry that someday we might be in their shoes.
I didn't say this at the meeting but I know that shen I am wise enough to give myself the choice I choose not to fear... I think we could quit fearing that we might suffer as they do and instead be as one with the poor and suffering, right now. If you can't suffer with, perhaps you can suffer for... and should suffering seem like a bad idea, maybe this is because you're afraid of suffering altogether... because you already know it so well. This discussion gets to be a labrynthine trek into the abundance of suffering in, around and through us, so it's probably better I quit before I got ahead of myself.
The folks who had been participating in the conversation began to treat me as the enemy. They related to me as though I were unimaginative, hopeless and fearful. They spoke to me as if to reprimand me. They told me I was uneducated and wrong.
But this is not new to me. I sat shivering in my folding chair, the way one does when one has hoped for the underdogs to be treated less like dogs and more like humans.
The hero of the night (an anglo man from the southeast: Que Milagro!) stood up and requested that the others recognize the voices of the women of color as a gift and respond with a moment of silence at least. Another white man shouted from across the room, "Oh, do you speak for them now?!"
He answered in the affirmative and then leaned down, put his hand on my back and asked if I wanted to leave and we did.
The pastor wrote to apologize.
The guest speaker contacted my best friend/white skinned, technicolor-hearted escort and relayed this story:
My people are the very reason he began working to educate folks about global economic powers and how they work against the very minorities they ought to be protecting. You see, months ago he met a child after having been told that the child needed counseling. In his professional opinion, and much to his credit, he discovered the child didn't need a therapist as much as a father. No, this father hadn't abandoned the child entirely; the father, like so many, worked two jobs to provide for the child's immediate needs: food and shelter. Look it up on Maslowe's Hierarchy if you want; that father did the right thing.
I felt better about shaking in my boots that night. There is reason to quake when a room full of white folks make accusations. I came to them to learn from them and I was deftly accused and for what? For speaking for Mexico.
And then there is this, which will be your reward if you made it this far in reading this post because it is hopeful and helpful and many more lovely things:
Today a woman stopped me on my way out of church and asked if I am okay. Now, I have many reasons to say no, but I was polite, said yes and she became suspicious. When I said yes she pressed me. She recalled the way I slipped out of the meeting I just described, and she remembered it like it was yesterday. She just wanted, she said, to be sure I was okay.
I didn't want to lie to her and I did not want to let her off the hook too easily. Whether she knew it or not she was taking the first steps toward being an advocate: she was listening.
I'm not okay, I told her. I explained that what happened in the meeting is commonplace for me these days. I am often the minority in many ways. So I'm not okay, but folks who treat me as the enemy don't have enough power over me to ruin my day--and especially not my life. I explained as well as I could and asked if I was making sense because it is still very hard for me to explain all this. She listened well and responded with acute admiration for me. She was jealous that I was able to keep from being ruined even though I was fully aware of the situation's gravitas.
So, if you're not a minority reader and you're still with me, count yourself among the advocates. You are doing it, and, as a result you will know, sooner than you would have otherwise, that it is possible to wield your opinion like an ax and waste time trying to beat the enemy down. You may unknowingly attempt to ruin someone's life and then come up empty handed and you will probably choose to quit it sooner or later than you otherwise would have because you may already be suffering a worthy suffering that makes you aware of how hard it is to be in a room with someone abusing power.
On the other hand, if you are in the minority in your community I hope this will help a little. Don't forget to look for a chance to tell the whole story, don't let the hegemony off the hook and don't forget telling the truth is a big job, pero si se puede.
In other words: P-Patches are great, but listening with the ears of love is greater still and there are more times than there aren't when that is all that matters.
Economically, empirically ecclesiologically?
Evidently there are lots of good ideas about sustainable living, many of which have to do with reviving the idea of a kind of victory garden. There is a new P-Patch in my neighborhood--it seems to have sprouted over night! As my Aussie friends say: Goodonya, P-Patch.
During a recent discussion regarding the "Evils of the American Empire" Such gardens were given as proof that "we" will pool our resources and learn to subvert our empirical (there wasn't a better word for the way I feel about it. I made one up: empiritanical is part empire, part puritan, part tyrannical) tendencies.
Admittedly, I am often hopeful that I belong in this "we" who "shall be saved". I am unabashedly American in so many many ways... And yet I also think of the "we" who "shall overcome" because I am Mexican. Go ahead, say it... you know you want to:
"I didn't know she was Mexican."
"Really? Like part Mexican? Or what?"
"How much Mexican blood do you have?"
"Wait, you were born here though..."
"Do you speak Spanish?"
Argue against my Mexicredentials all you want
I don't really (ever) want to engage such comments except to say this:
You want to know how Mexican I am?
I am just enough Mexican to think of Mexico first. I am Mexican first.
Sure you can tell me (one woman said it right to my face) that "Our community gardens will save us!" Go on and say it over and over again. Tell me--even though I live in an apartment now because I am losing my house and property in my divorce.
Tell me gardens are going to be our salvation--because its Wednesday, not Sunday: Wednesday is different from Sunday because Wednesday is not the day on which you corporately confess that Jesus Christ happens to be our Salvation...
Which begs the question: what exactly do you think we need salvation from? Hunger, famine, scurvy? And why do "we" need to be saved at all, isn't it that, the most empirical of our erroneous theological underpinnings, the most elitist thing we can hope for: to rescue ourselves without regard for the larger suffering? The suffering of all Creation?
And am I part of the "us" of which you speak, even after you discover my whiteness comes and goes even though it is the part that shows?
Who knows, maybe more than half of my genes are from Mexico... Those big "B"s tend to dominate. Nevertheless, all of my concern is for immigration reform... and not "immigration reform now!", but maybe even yesterday! Imagine what would happen if our national understanding about immigration reform could acknowledge the fact that the border crossed a lot of "us." All that fertile land on which your community (victory?) gardens grow may be given back to the people who lived on it first... Am I blowing your mind yet? Would you be totally effed? But Damn. Oh, wait... maybe you're not completely offended yet. That's probably good... I guess.
I'm not thinking of being saved--now that I'm $60,000 indebted to the government for loaning me the money to develop a satisfactory soteriology I don't worry about that. I worry about holding on: to the best parts of my self so I can give back, holding on to enough money (instead of saving) on groceries so I can pay rent... Are you still with me?
You can tell me what you want to do about the danger "we" are in and saving "us" but I will usually think first of Mexico and drug wars and dirty water... then I think of Mexicans like me, living on this side of the border: Third generation, accidentally accented. And our passion for those just one generation behind us: still scrimping and pinching pennies to pay for water to drink or bathe--how can anyone imagine having water with which to grow these gardens of which you speak? How can we imagine owning land or even paying rent on land enough to plant enough to feed our families? And then there is the matter of getting onto (should I say into?) this fertile land of which you speak. You don't want my family members driving through Arizona, much less crawling into California.
Are you so mad you could spit? I am, but I'm saving myself the trouble.
I sat in the meeting, one of two women of color--we were the only folks owning up to our minority status, if there were others they didn't speak up so I can't say anything about them here. The other woman, my elder and a beautiful, trustworthy woman, spoke about her concern for other countries where gardens are not the answer. And as soon as she did a white man spoke about American status and soil being ruined should our reliance on fossil fuels catch up with us. He said that soon we would all be living on barren land and soon all the white folks stateside would suffer as those in Darfur.
I asked him to reconsider that we, as privileged Americans, might offer help to countries like Darfur before that happens. I mentioned that we might not turn inward again and again but think of those less fortunate before we worry that someday we might be in their shoes.
I didn't say this at the meeting but I know that shen I am wise enough to give myself the choice I choose not to fear... I think we could quit fearing that we might suffer as they do and instead be as one with the poor and suffering, right now. If you can't suffer with, perhaps you can suffer for... and should suffering seem like a bad idea, maybe this is because you're afraid of suffering altogether... because you already know it so well. This discussion gets to be a labrynthine trek into the abundance of suffering in, around and through us, so it's probably better I quit before I got ahead of myself.
The folks who had been participating in the conversation began to treat me as the enemy. They related to me as though I were unimaginative, hopeless and fearful. They spoke to me as if to reprimand me. They told me I was uneducated and wrong.
But this is not new to me. I sat shivering in my folding chair, the way one does when one has hoped for the underdogs to be treated less like dogs and more like humans.
The hero of the night (an anglo man from the southeast: Que Milagro!) stood up and requested that the others recognize the voices of the women of color as a gift and respond with a moment of silence at least. Another white man shouted from across the room, "Oh, do you speak for them now?!"
He answered in the affirmative and then leaned down, put his hand on my back and asked if I wanted to leave and we did.
The pastor wrote to apologize.
The guest speaker contacted my best friend/white skinned, technicolor-hearted escort and relayed this story:
My people are the very reason he began working to educate folks about global economic powers and how they work against the very minorities they ought to be protecting. You see, months ago he met a child after having been told that the child needed counseling. In his professional opinion, and much to his credit, he discovered the child didn't need a therapist as much as a father. No, this father hadn't abandoned the child entirely; the father, like so many, worked two jobs to provide for the child's immediate needs: food and shelter. Look it up on Maslowe's Hierarchy if you want; that father did the right thing.
I felt better about shaking in my boots that night. There is reason to quake when a room full of white folks make accusations. I came to them to learn from them and I was deftly accused and for what? For speaking for Mexico.
And then there is this, which will be your reward if you made it this far in reading this post because it is hopeful and helpful and many more lovely things:
Today a woman stopped me on my way out of church and asked if I am okay. Now, I have many reasons to say no, but I was polite, said yes and she became suspicious. When I said yes she pressed me. She recalled the way I slipped out of the meeting I just described, and she remembered it like it was yesterday. She just wanted, she said, to be sure I was okay.
I didn't want to lie to her and I did not want to let her off the hook too easily. Whether she knew it or not she was taking the first steps toward being an advocate: she was listening.
I'm not okay, I told her. I explained that what happened in the meeting is commonplace for me these days. I am often the minority in many ways. So I'm not okay, but folks who treat me as the enemy don't have enough power over me to ruin my day--and especially not my life. I explained as well as I could and asked if I was making sense because it is still very hard for me to explain all this. She listened well and responded with acute admiration for me. She was jealous that I was able to keep from being ruined even though I was fully aware of the situation's gravitas.
So, if you're not a minority reader and you're still with me, count yourself among the advocates. You are doing it, and, as a result you will know, sooner than you would have otherwise, that it is possible to wield your opinion like an ax and waste time trying to beat the enemy down. You may unknowingly attempt to ruin someone's life and then come up empty handed and you will probably choose to quit it sooner or later than you otherwise would have because you may already be suffering a worthy suffering that makes you aware of how hard it is to be in a room with someone abusing power.
On the other hand, if you are in the minority in your community I hope this will help a little. Don't forget to look for a chance to tell the whole story, don't let the hegemony off the hook and don't forget telling the truth is a big job, pero si se puede.
In other words: P-Patches are great, but listening with the ears of love is greater still and there are more times than there aren't when that is all that matters.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Por Laurita
Laurita sent me a link to this in The Atlantic... I'd copy the link, but I think you should just read it here to save time and if you need more in the way of citations, just ask...
Jackie Wang quotes The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke, on the eternal debate between being out in the world and writing about the world:
For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning.
You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, but it is still not enough to be able to think of all that.
You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open windows and the scattered noises.
And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
Jackie Wang quotes The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke, on the eternal debate between being out in the world and writing about the world:
For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning.
You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, but it is still not enough to be able to think of all that.
You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open windows and the scattered noises.
And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
Monday, October 4, 2010
For Edgar
Edgar sells Real Change (not just the papers) near my school. We recently celebrated his new reading glasses. We always celebrate his wind up radio. We drink coffee together and shared cookies on my last birthday. When I introduced him to Miss A he said to me, "you are blessed." Then he looked at her and said, "you are what its all about."
Sometimes I think I can hear him singing this song, humming right along with us.
Sometimes I think I can hear him singing this song, humming right along with us.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
And that's good isn't it?
I edited the formatting on the old skinnytree so it won't nauseate me anymore... which means it is less likely to nauseate you too!
Also, I am not, as I thought I might be, cringing when I read the old entries.
in fact, if you're wondering what went wrong, what went right, what went down... it serves as a pretty good chronicling of the past five years. Until the new, blogger edition takes up where the blogger leaves off
http://skinnytree.berkeleyblogs.com/
In the words of one of my favorite developmentally disabled friends, "that's good, isn't it?"
Also, I am not, as I thought I might be, cringing when I read the old entries.
in fact, if you're wondering what went wrong, what went right, what went down... it serves as a pretty good chronicling of the past five years. Until the new, blogger edition takes up where the blogger leaves off
http://skinnytree.berkeleyblogs.com/
In the words of one of my favorite developmentally disabled friends, "that's good, isn't it?"
Saturday, October 2, 2010
more on santos
I won't say that I figured it out, and I won't say that it was just now that I had this epiphany because I didn't figure it out.
Furthermore, this is hardly an epiphany... I think its more like clarification, or maybe confession--those are often intermingled for me.
I will just say that I lit some candles tonight, just because and I suddenly thought of a way to explain another reason why I love the Santos candles:
I don't light them because I think La Virgen de Guadalupe o Angel de la Guarda will make something good happen. That smacks of superstition and I am not optimistic enough to gamble on something like that.
I light them because its part of the routine I like to go through when I'm telling myself that its time to pay extra attention to all the good things that are happening.
I guess you could say the same about any of my prayer practices: I don't pray to ask God to make good things happen; I pray that God will help me to see the good in all that God is doing all the time and to remember that, deep down, in side where my own little light keeps shining whether or not I remember to tend the flame there.
Furthermore, this is hardly an epiphany... I think its more like clarification, or maybe confession--those are often intermingled for me.
I will just say that I lit some candles tonight, just because and I suddenly thought of a way to explain another reason why I love the Santos candles:
I don't light them because I think La Virgen de Guadalupe o Angel de la Guarda will make something good happen. That smacks of superstition and I am not optimistic enough to gamble on something like that.
I light them because its part of the routine I like to go through when I'm telling myself that its time to pay extra attention to all the good things that are happening.
I guess you could say the same about any of my prayer practices: I don't pray to ask God to make good things happen; I pray that God will help me to see the good in all that God is doing all the time and to remember that, deep down, in side where my own little light keeps shining whether or not I remember to tend the flame there.
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