Monday, August 05, 2013

Notas sobre "Standing Bear is a Person: The true story of a Native American's quest for justice" ...

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I
El derecho de existir
como humano,
en cualquier lugar del mundo,
en cualquier tiempo de la tierra,
es la revolución es ser humano...

II
Pasaportes de la piel
costumbres de clases sociales
el gruñir de los géneros
esto no durará



III
Dos estrategias
frente a la expropiación, la apropiación, la anexión
sin consulta, impuesta:
1. Asimlarse, "civilizarse:"
ciudanizarse para prosperar
acomodarse al lugar que le dan

2. Autonomía, resistencia, resistir
a ser iguales para ser diferentes, consultar, proponer
desciudadanizarse, reconocer,
practicar ser humano,
practicar los derechos humanos
cuidar la tierra, el agua, el viento,
que es cuidar a las y los antepasados,
la sangre, los lugares ancestrales, sagrados, los pulmones--las redes
humanas que como las velas
de las carabelas toman viento
y transforman
o hacen a las y los de arriba incómodos,
desacomodadores humanos.



IV
Tenemos que insistir en nuestros nombres
en nuestra autodeterminación,
en nuestro autorespeto, autodefensa, el único
auto
en que nos subiremos
para emprender este viaje,
que nos puede llevar de viaje,
la autonomía.

V
Todas las ciudades y poblados
sin importar que importantes
sean o marginalizados e
insignificantes,
están rodeados
de labores agrícolas, agua
y la mano de obra para que
florezcan:
Tambos de agua,
árboles, verde y verdura,
colchas de zurcos, canales y arroyos
de agua, manos que hacen los
tubos sorber y ahogarse, lodo (xocolatl)
las y los antepasados en flujo
desplegándose hacia las semillas y las estrellas

VI
La norma humana, la persona, la personalidad humana
no puede ser el blanco, eurocéntrico
monolingüe ciudadano estadounidense.
EEUUtopía es la globalización gabacha,
gabacha en su sentido original,
(en inglés le llaman "ecological footprint,"
es decir la huella
o el peso sobre
o la ocupación de
o el consumo
de la naturaleza):
las y los que con sus patas grandes
pisan y machucan
a las plantas,
a los animalitos y
a los lugares sagrados
a las y los humanos
y pisotean y dan patadas
con los dedos gordos
de sus pies y manos
a las y los demás
para servirse primero...


Sunday, July 14, 2013

From somewhere in East Oakland, imagining a different community of communities


Arnoldo Garcia

Blinded by Color, Unbound by Place: Trayvon Martin

Dedicated to my children and our future together
To the youth, the boys and girls in my neighborhood struggling to live and to their present together.

We must defend ourselves, you and me, from whiteness, white supremacy.

George Zimmerman was Latino? Was Zimmerman a white Hispanic? No. Zimmerman is a Hispanic/Latino mask with a white soul. There are no such humans, Latino, white. (There are Hispanics, but he isn’t one.) Additionally, there are few if any Latino or Brown on Black killings. This is another subject we have to talk about, when our Mexican youth hurt and kill other Mexican youth, when our African American youth hurt and kill other African American youth. Where is the outrage, the breaking of windows, the marches, the call for responsibility and safety, the disarming of the violence when Norteño kills Sureño? Black on Black, Brown on Brown violence is also police violence. Where do the guns and ammo come from, who licenses the arms and weapons that flood our communities, who regulates and distributes the guns, rifles, the violence and coercion that make our neighborhoods unsafe?

The Zimmerman murder of Trayvon Martin was a racist murder, a white violence that is terrorizing us all, a white supremacy that has hundreds of years of violent practice in violent subjugation and genocide and prisons and schools and the mentalities that permit them. Whiteness is not an illusion; it is very real and yet it is a delusion.

We are all very specific, concrete people. If you consider yourself white and antiracist, you are still part of the racist problem. If you consider yourself Latino and are antiracist you are still part of the racist problem. I feel troubled when I hear partner activists, who are progressive and still say they are white. Whiteness must be berated and negated, not the people who claim that identity. We have to separate the whites from the whiteness and that will take some real work. Whiteness has caused and continues causing harm and trauma to our communities of colors. Whiteness is a bipolar world, i.e. insanity with state power and institutions that make us believe, coerces us, imprisons us in cages or classrooms, that whiteness is the ultimate form of humanness.

White is a color, not a culture, not a people. The same goes for black. Black is a color, not a culture, not a people. White, black, brown, these are the identities of racialization, homogenization, which are the function and power of colonization, empire and imperialism over our consciousness and communities, the destruction of our very being and powers.

I am not oblivious (or too ignorant either) of the historical nature of these identities. To destroy and dismantle whiteness, it is not enough for us to call ourselves people of color, Black, Brown. Whites have to stop calling themselves whites and take responsibility for the legacy they have lived and are living under, the privilege of racialized empire-building and the American dream.

Black is beautiful. So is white beautiful? Brown is beautiful. Are those the only colors of the rainbow and the natural world that are beautiful? Is beauty in the gaze of the beholder? Is beauty a racial justice struggle like demanding justice for Trayvon? If Zimmerman is Latino, does that change the nature of the murder he committed against Trayvon Martin? Or must he be white, as I am arguing, for the nature of the killing to change?

What the verdict does not change and can never change is that a white man killed a Black, African American teenager. This story will never change. This is the story that we must change.

So many questions; so much rage and so little time to answer all of them. And Trayvon Martin and hundreds of other African America and Mexican, Salvadoran, Guatemalan, Honduran, Purepecha, Mixtec, Zapotec, et. al., are still dead from police violence or zombies in perpetual prison or endless criminalization.

We are not minorities either. Minority is a political project of colonialism and then U.S. imperial designs. A minority is a person, a place and a people who lack self-determination and vision – which are imposed by the so-called “majority.” The U.S. plans the future of all peoples and that future is for them to become minorities. (Note: if we count all whites the way whites count us in the Census, whites would be the minorities: 5% German there, 5% Irish there [I know, I know, Irish are not white, but who’s counting?], 5% Anglos here, 5% French, 3% Scottish, 15% Indio or Mexican – boom!)

We are not undocumented. We have enough documents to proof our history and existence that goes back at least 15,000 years. We just do not have the documents that prove we are a minority that knows its place in the uni-polarized world of the U.S. That is the purvey of immigration authority: you are not here and you do not exist until we say who you are and that you exist to serve us, disposable, deportable, guest worker, bracero, immigrant.

I am not a Latino. I am a Mexican. And even then I am a very specific type of Mexican, descended from Palestinian and Purepecha black and indio roots.

In the struggle for liberation and clarity in revolutionary transformations and reforms, civil rights and human rights and neo-liberalism, I have been dubbed Mexican, white, Mexican-American, Mexican American, Chicano, Hispanic, Latino, Brown (another color of racialization, etc.). Now we have the choice of Hispanic. Oh, I am not nor ever will be from Hispania.

In another country in the Americas, for example, you can buy your whiteness, literally, without changing your color. You have money, you buy a document that declares you white.

You can do the same thing in the U.S. You can get your whiteness in the U.S. in one of two ways: With money and with identity (or both). What we are called, what we call ourselves, is the struggle for a new type of self-determination and liberty.

First strategy: Get rich (or die trying?) – or at least become part of the stable working class, i.e. middle class. And you buy your way into the gated communities or at least afford to live in the gentrified neighborhoods or districts where at least 12-15% of the residents are white. Violá – you are not white but you have bought the trappings of safety and wellbeing that whites enjoy without even a second thought about how they got this way.

How do you know you live in a gentrified neighborhood or district? Call the police for assistance and see how long it takes them to arrive or if they even show up.

The second way to buy whiteness is through identity.

Call yourself Hispanic, Latino. Poof you are white. Hispanic, Latino means: “Hey, you can’t deport me! I pay taxes; I work legitimately. I am not ‘Black.’ I am hard working, tax-paying family man. I am not a criminal!”

Agree to forget your history and your past and delude yourself into thinking that you are not the color of your dark skin, that you are not from here, and no one else will notice because you say who you are and you live in the right neighborhood.

And both of these and other ways are delusional. You are not white, you are black. You are not Hispanic, you are Mexican.

You are not Mexican, you are an Indio, an Indian who has been here longer than anyone else who is NOT Indio.

Your are not middle class, you are not rich; you are hand-to-mouth, paycheck to paycheck working class bum, filled with anxiety and worry that you will become unemployed, unemployable, homeless and black or worse end up in the barrio or ghetto.

I am not a Hispanic. Note: There are Hispanics, people who are from Spain or descended from Spanish who settle her in colonies and made colonization a way of life; who spoke Castilian, the language of the castle-imperial kings/queens. There is a 350+year old Hispanic community that settled and continues living in a region straddled by New Mexico and Colorado in the U.S. southwest. The royal academy of the Spanish language has studied this Hispanic region for years because 15th or 16th century Spanish is still spoken there.

Hispanic is also a synonym for whiteness; Hispanics are from Europe, hence white. To erase Indios and Mexicans from the U.S., sometime in the 1960s and 1970s, the state power decided to count us Hispanic. Poof, you’re gone.

When dark-skinned Mexicans want to delude themselves, they say they are Hispanics, when they are indigenous and have been here longer than anyone else, free or slave, black or white, European, Asian, African.

Hispanic is a very recent creation, a tool of subordination, domination and soul crushing destruction of people. The Hispanics themselves, Spaniards, Spanish, created this identity to crush the indigenous peoples of what is now Spain: Basques, etc.

I am not an American in the U.S. “American” as an identity in the U.S. has been confiscated, expropriated, corroded and made unusable for everyone except whites. In my world, América is a continent not a country.

American is a synonym for whiteness and Americans barely tolerate anyone else using it. In their imperial, neocolonial kindness, whites are doing to us what they did to themselves. By changing their names, they gave themselves the authority to take whatever they wanted, all for short-term gain and long-term, continual disaster upon the world’s peoples and the natural world herself.

In the end, none of this is important if we do not stand up for Trayvon Martin and hundreds, maybe tens of thousands of other victims of racist violence. More critical, can we prevent this from happening again? Will you befriend, mentor all the Trayvon Martins of my neighborhood or are you afraid of Black and Brown Buffalo youth, boys and girls, men and women, hooded and unhooded, middle class or homeless?

I do not want to see another movie of our tragedies made. Why didn’t anyone make a movie of Oscar Grant when he was alive? Why didn’t we care nationally or even locally about Trayvon before he became Trayvon? What about Zimmerman? He is still the killer and will be for all time. Will he find redemption? How does he continue living with blood on his hands? How does the U.S. continue functioning with so much war, blood, injustices and suffering at home and abroad? Will we prevent another Zimmerman from appearing? Will I throw myself in front of the bullets meant for my Trayvon, will you?

*
P.S. we must talk, all of us of all the colors and pigments. We must talk to say who we are, where we are at and where we are going. We can exist without this world, we can thrive as communities in a different relationship. The U.S. formation is not the only world possible. Our language, our vocabularies, our self-determined beings, our relationships can change to make good our lives; we all want to be in a better relationship than the ones that permitted the emergence of Zimmermans and the criminalization of the Trayvons and the violence and coercion that codified it. We are the ones who can make this possible by being different and sometimes just by being who we are supposed to be.

Notes, Oakland, July 14, 2013.


Sunday, June 30, 2013

the noise of the noiseless


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I am the noise of the noiseless
I am the sex of the sexless
I am the orgasm of the orgasmless
I am the leg of the legless
I am the god of the godless
I am the mouth of the mouthless
I am the nose of the noseless
I am the eye of the eyeless
the blind of the blindless
the heart of the heartless
the seed of the seedless
the son of the sonless
the love of the loveless
O I am the voice of the voiceless (more or less)
the tonsil of the tonsilless
the silly of the silliest
the path of the pathless
the apathy of the apathyless

O I am the aim of the aimless
the scorn of the scornless
I am the land of the landless
I am the migrant of the migrantless
I am the ink of the inkless
the paper of the paperless
the documented of the documentedless
the undocumented of the undocumentedless
the illegal of the illegalless
the human of the inhumanless
the male of the maleless
the man of the manless
the erect of the erectless
the secret army of the proletarian armyless
the mess of the messless
the shadow of the unshadowed
the punk of the punkless
the shit of the shitless
the wit of the witless
the brains of the brainless
the more of the less
the more or less-less
I am the hope of the hopeless
the care of the careless
the cruelity of the cruel-less
the top of the topless
the bottom of the bottomless pit
i am the stink of the stinkless
the skunk of the skunkless
the music of the musicless
the mute of the muteless
the karma of the karmaless
the caramel of the appleless
I am the passion of the passionless
the hatred of the hateless
I am the body of the bodiless
hear me well, more or less, voiceless
for I am the sign of the signless
the deaf of the deafless
the dog of the dogless
I am the tattoo for the tattooless
I am the skin of the skinless
the nudity of the nudeless
the breast upon which of the breastless suckle
the lips of the lipless
the hip of the hipsterless
the style of the stylishless
the unpublished of the unpublishedness
the queer of the straightless
the long-play of the shortstopless
the grand slam of the hungerless
the lust of the lustless
the kiss of death of the lipless
the laughter of the laughless
the happiness of the sadless
the fucked up one of the unfucked ones
the hipster with double hip replacementless
the admonisher of the admonishless
the hand of the handless
O I am more or less human
more or less understood
more or less loveable
more or less
given an lifeless or two
I am the weeroh of the grasshoppers counting the heat of the sun's rhythms
I am the voice of the suffocating dreamless
I am the body entering the bodyless
I am the possession of the dispossessed
I am the tenderness of the hardenedless
I am the contradiction of the dictionless
I am the field, the hoe, the migrant, the whore, the shore, the mostless
I am the holy of the holyless
I am the sacred of the profaneless
the sin of the sinless
the hell of the hell-less
the purgatory of the constipatedless
I am the color of the colorblindness
the healer of the healless
the shoe of the shoeless
the scar across the back of the spineless
I am the cacophony of the cacophonyless
the cacao of the chocolateless
the poetry of the poetless
the saliva of the drymouthedness
I am the spit of the spitless
the smile of the sweet revengeless
I am the humanfan, unfolding,
the crack of the crackless
the drug of your manic choiceless
the vice of the viceless
the voice of the choiceless
the coitus of the handless
the leper of the leopardless
the assassin of the unassailableless
the bullet of the clueless
the shadow of the sunless
the wrinkle in time of the timeless
the space of the spaceless
the nectar of the flowerless
the loneliness of the solitudeless
I am O I am
the nothing of the nothingness
the synthesis of antithesis
the anti-matter of the matter-of-fact-less
the chingon of the chingonless
the puta of the putaless
the horn of africa for the buffaloless
the aztlan of your landless desire for land
the spontaneity of the masses for the massless
the community of the lostless
the soul of the soulless
the thought of the thoughtless
the vile of the vileless
the war of the warless
the peace of the peaceless
the weapon of the unarmedless
the word of the wordless
the voice of the viciousless
the viciousness of the speakerless
the democracy of the democratless
the notes of the noteless
the compost of the dungless
the fire of the fireless
I am O I am forever walking for the walkless
I am the job of the jobless
I am the revolution for the revolutionless
I am the justice for the injustless
I am the vision of the sightless
I am the rotting teeth of the teethless
I am the almighty for the mightyless
I am a world traveller for the localless
I am the commonest manifesto for the manifestoless
I am the listener for those who are never listened to the earless
the glue for the glueless
I am O I am the center for the centerless
I am the ballet for the clubfootedless
I am the drunk for the teetotalerless
the dictator of the dictatorshipless
I am the spoiled fruit of the fruitless
I am the soiled of the soiledless
I am the alibi of the guiltyless
the sorcerer of the witchless
the baying of the bitchless
the sixth sun of the sunless
the distant thunder of the rainless
the traitor of the complacentless
the missive of the illiterateless
the missile of the armyless
the doomsday of the presidential bunkerless
I am the cost of bad schooling and good mannerismsless,
I am a curandera of the healthless
I am the inexhaustible panting of the pantless
the butt of the jokeless
the glass eye of the glassless
I am the rage of your voicelessness
I am by all accounts a ventriloquist of the woodenless
I am a stand-up communist of the proletarian revolutionary punchline of march
a noise among the noisyness
a nose among the nosyness
The nooses for the counterrevolutionaries
I am the representation of the representationless
the loss of the lossless
more or less...

*

poem & painting by arnoldo garcía
"El poets," 25"x22" (2011, mixed media)

Sunday, June 23, 2013

you buried my placenta



You buried
my placenta
next to you
so that every night and day
we could walk together
we could sleep together
we could love together
to drag ourselves
through the detritus of your womb
whirling into suns





My placenta
floats and flies
around you
inside you
lacerating the oceans
with tiny waves of flesh offerings
a rhythm of two bodies
meshing,
swelling,
gasping,
grasping at
the suns of my breasts
where the milky way drips from my nipples

I am wave,
particle
and bread
leavening
caressing
your roots and your mouth
with my tongue
made of gravitational fields
where cosmic farmworkers
trample valleys and plant seed
bursting the oceans of your breasts

You
buried
my placenta
next
to you:
I know
where
I was offered
to calm your body
I know
when
I was buried
to rub myself
into your existence

You
buried
my placenta
next
to
you.

[Seattle-Oakland, circa 1989]


Sunday, May 12, 2013

word justice

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my body
is the broadcasting machine
communicating waves
of color
dsl eyes
analog ancestors
waiting to be
clicked on
digitalized
sent careening
into the electronic ocean
a digital root
a dust meme
a viral rage for justice

my body is my art
my blood acrylic, oil, pastel,
ink;
My bones,
a knife to etch, scratch, brush, dab, splat,
push into
press against
the canvas of you

language is what you do
with a weapon system called
my tongue, my lungs
my brain, my memories
my lives
of migration...


Tuesday, May 07, 2013

Small note to Billie Holiday




Will your love
defeat my sorrow
trounce my abandonment?

I will make the winter endless
so that you may never die.

Thursday, May 02, 2013

[Poema 31] the imagination of the working class | may day 2013



the working class
did not rise up today
the non-profits
mobilized
the professionals
were disappointed
the working class
did not rise up today
the day laborers
the domestic workers
the immigration policy advocates
the union bureaucrats
the working moms
the unemployed
the anarchists
the lobbyists
the civil rights activists
the retired and semi-retired labor aristocrats
the hipsters with class consciousness
the ilegales
they marched today
together yes
the Chicago martyrs
must be happy
even with these small numbers
the fire is still aflame
the revolution
is still possible
the dictatorship of the working class?
even if the march and rally
lasted three hours
that's three hours out of 2000+ work hours in a year
where workers became workers for herself,
which is not necessarily good.


No necesitamos
papeles
documentos
visas
permisos
ciudadanías
para
ser humanos
para vivir y sobrevivir
para trabajar y ser explotados
para gozarnos sin temores estatales
No te ofrezco nada
No haré nada por tí
te ofrezco
acompañarte
te acompaño
si tu me acompañas
Juntos desbarataremos los sistemas
no nos puede clasificar ni descalificar
Te ofrezco sí
plumas
plumajes
plumerías
para ser humanos
libres
jornaleros
jornaleras
migrantes
de la vida y nada más, que es mucho
no necesitamos nada
tenemos que ser humanos
emplumados
porque somos
explotados
somos
comunidades
de
viento y polvo
cielo y tierra
lodo ancestral
semilla solar
luna oleadora
la comunidad emplumada



disperso mis lágrimas
contra los números y los vocales y los consonantes y los lenguajes serviles
del imperio virtual-no-virtual
una ráfaga de tierra
una emboscada de sílabas libres
una campaña de primaveras
una oleada de mártires que no se cansan de morir por la causa
una mirada serena que nos ve y
ve que somos diferentes
que porque nuestras lágrimas se transforman en semilla

Somos, soy, eres
corazón emplumado
inmigrante emplumado
fronteras emplumadas
puños emplumados
orgasmos emplumados
sonrisas, besos, labios
palabras voladoras

De cada poro florecen plumas
bayonetas
que cortan
y parten
al viento
las contradicciones
en dos, tres, en tí, en mí
lenguas emplumadas
lenguajes de lodo
lenguajes emancipadores
sueños emplumados
pueblos emplumados
íntimos, íntimas
emplumados
no empleados


the singing wires
are no match for our humming hearts
the electromagnetic fields
are no match for the elote fields
I can send my messages
at the speed of digital DNA
spinning out of control
disembodied into bytes
dismembered
dislocated
displaced
twirling through electronic space
wireless through wires everywhere
dissed
in time and space
and land
reconstituted
reformed
remembered
in your eyes
in your digital screens
whole
yet I destroyed
insects
electrons
eros
and I will disappear
vanish
turn into another quark and quasar
bursting on a future radar
on the other side of the border
a meaningless signal from a lost civilization


what are roads and highways for?
they go nowhere except the marketplace, the mall, the factory, the shanty barrios
you cannot even get lost on the u.s. highways
the department of transportation should be renamed
the department of physical control
walk, drive, get on a bus:
you can only go to work, to shop, to consume, to waste your life
making useless objects, pushing paper (instead of poems)
disposable diapers, disposable babies, disposable, deportable people
Turn your palms up
there is your human answer
you were born squeezing feathers
the earth's minerals, the earth's stones
hold up your flesh, blood and dreams
you were born on the plumed path
that leads to other worlds
your plumed hands are
the human-long journey, an explosion, a steep horizon
a path that ends and starts at your feet


the imagination of the working class?
smokestacks and rust-belts
cranes and world trade centers
beaches and vacations
pensions and retirement homes
the endgame liberators?

the imagination of the human revolution
is volcanoes and mountains
wetlands and aquifers
seeds and plantings
fresh air and fresh water,
fresh
soil
fresh
souls
of families, elders and ancestors that care for you

the imagination of the working class
is to abolish work, capitalist work, capitalist exploitation
is to abolish industrial man
abolish the contaminated man
the poisoned man
the deadly, toxic, radiation-spill man

the imagination of the human revolution
is a tsunami that connects and reconnects
moves movements of energy from one field to the next
a farmworker tsunami
a human tsunami
a tsunami
that destroys to rebuild
that connects us across the oceans
in drownings
in nuclear spills
in cars, neighborhoods, people
swept away
uprooted
into the longest night of the human cosmos



the human revolution cannot be commercialized
you and i cannot sell the land upon which humanity dreams
you and i cannot cut and paste relationships
you and i will learn again to plant our feet
grow roots
germinate
flowering maize
rattling leaves
laughter in the dust and dirt-clods of childhood
prepare to become mineral again,
stones for the next foundation of humanity
becoming ancestor
becoming fresh humans
who take care of the dust
who take care to notice how fragile
we really are
to bullets
to cars
to fists
to tenderness
to hurricanes
to irrigation canals
to solitude
to abandonment
to the utopia of your caresses


I do not want to bury you
I will not be able to keep my sanity
without you alive
without you at my side
I will not bury you
I will love another woman
before I have to bury you
because I will not bury you
the first kiss of humanity
the first lover to bury her lover
because I do not want to bury you
the first lover lays on my shoulders,
my humpbacked words

this is a long trek of grief, forsaken gods,
accumulated cries drowning in my eyes
the dust of graves choking in my throat
I will not bury you.


lines connect and divide us
borderlines
bloodlines
crossed lines
frontlines
hairlines
lined paper
lined soldiers
lines connect and divide us



Gilberto
taught me to hunt horizons and wild horses
that would guide us into other realms
where we would observe ourselves
freed from the constraints of time
we would spend years walking
a journey of suns and sweetgrass
in the rolling hills
horse heaven became ours
coyote dens and
the rivers with their choruses of light
became our kin
we never left those sepia mirages
we are still walking there
Gilberto waits there for the next dream



john trudell
would say
this ferris wheel
is an illusion
of power
of journey
of vision.
this
power
this
journey
this
vision
of dominant
industrial
society
goes
nowhere
round and round



Our work makes us human
Their work makes us unhuman
the capitalists don't just squeeze us
they work us to death
until the virus of middle classism kills our body
then we become working class zombies
the lowest strata rising from the dead 24/7
we hold up all the sky
and get crumbs from the pie
We have no work that is ours
Our work is to become free
become dream foragers
cultivate the land and the mind
plant, tend and harvest the maize
We will become human again
Don't mistake your humanness now for humanness
Humanity was never this cruel to humanity
Humans were never meant to stop humans from being humans
life did not make greed, greed does not make life
Our work is to become human again.