414. Not denying anyone of their multitudes
October 26th, 2011 § 9 Comments
1.
Today on the train, a teenage boy told the girl next to him–I think she was his girlfriend–that her forehead pimple was so huge, astronauts could use it for landing. I remember being that girl and struggling to say things that would make it seem like I didn’t care when I really, really cared. Back then, there was nothing more embarrassing than really, really caring. But who am I kidding. Back then is still right now.
On the train ride home, I sat next to this woman and her son. He was so little. Maybe he was six or seven, and he was wearing a little three piece suit and a baseball cap and he was telling and re-enacting the entire plot of Star Wars, except he didn’t know any of the character’s names, so he kept stuttering, like, “And then there was this man who was breathing a lot and very good at sword fighting,” and then the kid jumped off the seat and showed an example of this unnamed excellent sword fighter. There were these two geeky sci fiction nerds also on the train, sitting across from the little kid. They were hanging on to his every word, and occasionally they would interrupt the kid and be like, “Oh man! Are you talking about Darth Vader?” and the kid would be like, “Yeah and then there’s this other sword guy and he’s like pow pow pow pow.” It was adorable. When the boy and his mom got off at 125th street, one of the sci-fi nerds also got out and he caught up to the mother and said to her, “Man, your son and I have the exact same tastes in movies,” and then started rattling off a list of movies he recommended. The mom was like, “Wow, I, personally, have not heard of any of these.”
On another train, I sat across from a woman who was a trichotillomaniac. She had all of these broken short hairs at the back of her head. She would pull on a few strands of hair until she had loosened one and then she would run her thumb and index finger along that strand of hair like it was a ribbon she was curling with a scissor. Then she would take the curled up broken strand of hair and lay it flat against her notebook and press down on it. Then she would write a few words in her notice, and then finally, she would sweep the strand of hair off the page and start over again. She did that for fifty minutes. By the end of the subway ride, my heart was racing.
2.
Carissa, the brilliant designer of kitten playsuits and party pajamas over at Mandate of Heaven, just revealed the lookbook video for her Spring ’12 collection, and man alive, it’s a thing of beauty. And trust me, I’m not saying this because I’m it. The video was filmed at the amazing Wonderpuss Octopus Ink studio. Check it out if you want to see some killer playsuits, the best possible 70′s vibes, and some demented acting and dancing from yours truly untruly.
Here are screenshots in which everyone is beautiful, and my eyes are perpetually closed. (Probably because I’m ovaries deep in reverie and can hardly believe I’m wearing a locally handmade, one-of-a-kind playsuit with split balloon sleeves with a heart cut-out back and scalloped shorts re-purposed from vintage material!) Carissa’s clothes have this way of making every body type look so divine and babely that it’s honestly kind of unreal…
Blurry iphone photo taken with Aimée. Isn’t she such a babe in that two-piecer?
You can see more photos at Mandate of Heaven’s blog.
3.
The police teargassed peaceful Occupy Oakland protesters and fired rubber bullets. I mean go ahead and read this or this or this or watch this or this if you haven’t already. And if you’re convinced (do you need to be convinced? Or do you already stand in solidarity against the violent repression of community organizing and protest with militarized force?) then sign this.
4.
Are there too many disparate things in this post?
5.
I teach a college course at two high schools in the Bronx. Half of my kids immigrated to America two years ago. I want the 99% to rise up and organize and stand in solidarity for a world that denies no one an equal opportunity for a meaningful, happy life. It’s hard to imagine that isn’t still so so so much left to say about a statement like “We are the 99%.” Sometimes, when I’m walking around after work, I wonder how many of my friends who have lived in New York for ten plus years have ever stepped foot in the Bronx neighborhood I work in.
About half of my students have told me that they don’t think racism is a big deal. Last week, we discussed the Clark doll experiments in class, and talked about the 2005 documentary, A Girl Like Me, where a 17-year-old-girl recreates the experiments with twenty-one black children and fifteen of them choose the white doll over the black doll, just like seven decades ago, when eleven of the sixteen black children said that the black doll was “bad,” and then the Supreme Court decided maybe it was not such a great idea to keep children segregated, but guess what else was and is not a great idea? Movies that always ask us to root for the white characters. Movies where people of color always play supporting roles or worse–criminals, drug addicts, violent losers, janitors, wacky immigrants with exaggerated accents. Also what is not a great idea is a society that has a major fucking dearth of positive examples of people of color doing something interesting or great or complicated or funny or awesome. But how on earth can the Supreme Court “order” a change like that?
One of my students said, “That’s your own fault, if you don’t like the skin color you were born with,” and I thought, But that’s exactly what racism and other structures of oppression want you to believe. When we are oppressed, we are denied the opportunities and privileges that other people have benefit from and have access to. Then, instead of questioning why the fuck does this inequality exist, racism and other systems of oppression tricks you into thinking you’re the one to blame. If you fail at school, if you don’t become rich, it’s your own damn fault! Sure, 15% of Americans are living in poverty, and if you happen to be among that 15%, then clearly you did something wrong. No, it doesn’t have anything to do with the rise of minimum wage paying service sector jobs. If black men are 5.4 times more likely to be incarcerated than white dudes, well duh, it’s because black men are born criminals! They’re fucking deviants and white people are just naturally morally superior beings. Well, BULLSHIT.
All of my students are black or Latino. Most of them do not own computers. Most of them have to deal with bullshit that I can’t relate to, and I don’t think most of my friends, who are in the 99%, can relate to it either. Why does it seem like the people who have the most to be angry about are often the ones who are most hesitant to express anger? Why does it trouble me that the people who are the most comfortable expressing anger, and the most willing to organize that rage and anger into a progressive movement are the people who seem to live in the lap of luxury, at least compared to the people who don’t have the time and privilege to be quite so visible or vocal, at least compared to the people I know, who I think deserve so much–better schools, teachers and guidance counselors who don’t quit after a year because it fucking sucks to be a NYC public school teacher, safer homes, safer neighborhoods… the list goes on, but I don’t want to be someone who speaks for other people. I don’t want to take away someone else’s right to voice their own struggles, but does that also mean I have to be okay with someone not wanting to voice their struggles, not wanting to feel the least bit angry that because of their ethnicity, they are way more likely to be stopped by the police, to go to a shitty, underfunded school, to live in a violent, shitty neighborhood that only has shitty supermarkets with shitty, expired pasta on the shelves?
6.
Are you still with me?
Love,
Jenny
love from oakland. thanks for supporting us.
your writing on this blog so often helps me remember that my little secret sadnesses are real, even when they don’t get articulated, and that things like individual points of view and questions without answers matter so much. <3
Maybe I say this because relatively few people have tried to speak for me, but I think there’s a difference between speaking for a person or people, and telling what you see. Not everyone sees clearly, and many people look right past people and places and things they should see every day. I think the world might just (maybe) be a better place if more people would open their eyes and say, Yes. I see you, who are different from me.
love and rage.
What a lovely heart you have, Jenny Z.
I can see the 99% just below my window in downtown Los Angeles. I enjoy their presence (mostly cause they add some excitement to my day). Sometimes on work break, I stroll around their tents. I’m not really certain what they’re asking for, maybe they don’t even know what they’re asking for, but I agree with the underlying sentiment that pervades our Nation that something is wrong, that we are not doing enough to help those in need, that things could be so much better. But it has been pointed out that if these 99% really wanted to help, to bridge the gap between the classes, that they should volunteer more, do more community service, work in underprivileged schools as you are doing, not spend all the money they earn on apple products, designer clothes, etc.,
I suppose the truly misfortunate are not protesting because they do not have the self-esteem to or perhaps more likely they don’t realize their circumstances. I grew up poor. My mother was a single mother raising three children (later four) and we all slept in one room together while she rented the other room out. I had to constantly fight off other wild haggard children. I was filthy. I got my clothes from the thrift store. I don’t even remember eating. But I didn’t even realize that I grew up poor until we moved to a more middle class town when I was 12 years old, and then my socio-economic circumstances were even more glaring when I attended a very rich high school in an affluent neighborhood where 16 year olds actually got new Mustangs for their birthdays and carried around all the latest technology. Even though I lived on the wrong side of the tracks, in a neighborhood that was notorious for gang activity, I was still within the school district of this very rich school. And while attending this rich high school, I wrote about the domestic violence that was occurring at my neighbor’s home, and about police brutality, about something besides the school dance and whose who on the football team & cheer leading squad. As an adult, I have always felt that my experience with poverty was a blessing because it has given me an empathetic heart. My experience withstanding, poverty is certainly not for everyone . My sister is 20 years old and has had two children, both from useless older men. She has no job and no education. My brother can not hold a job, is addicted to drugs, drinks to much, and can’t read. I think I’ve said enough on this matter. Thank you for giving me the occasion to respond.
On a more upbeat note, you look amazing in the Mandate of Heaven playsuit. I love their new collection! Thank you for sharing.
Much love,
Crystal Lee
I forgot to include that I wrote about the topics of domestic violence and police brutality in my high school newsletter in my journalism class. Doh. I didn’t know how to go back and edit that into my comment.
Can pasta expire?
Yep, check the box. Even dried goods cannot achieve immortality. Even non-perishables perish…
Thank you for the intriguing and passionate post, Jenny. If you don’t mind I’d like to ask more about your experience teaching in the Bronx… and on the NYC subways… I will try the email in your ‘about’ page; if that’s changed, please let me know.
Wee!! Love this. Been reading your blog silently for over a year now and then up pops a post about Mandate of Heaven… my best friend’s older brother is Carissa’s dreamy Jewish bf. What a small world Brooklyn is. xxx
I love your observations – takes me back to when I was in NY. Love the idea of your blog too – dressing-up, thinking, writing. My 3 favourite things.