Dear Reader,
!
What you are about to read is a collection of thoughts, emotions, and meditations on or about the current state of liberalism and the western world. Within the pages of this zine are what we perceive as prescient issues regarding some latent racialized understanding of liberalism, especially within the institution of the university. By observing the environments around us, which are curated and mediated by a larger educational system that boasts multiculturalism and inclusivity while at the same time capitalizing on the desperation and curiosity of its constituents, we hope to provoke some thought on your end so that you may also analyze the institutions within which you exist. Simply put, we hope that after you read the contents of sounds liberal but ok, you will begin (or continue) questioning the systems of privilege and oppression that put you and the people around you in the situations you are in.
In the interest of effectively critiquing liberalism, there is a necessity for a self-reflexive analysis. By this we, the authors of this zine, attempt to engage with you, reader, on the grounds that all of us are implicated in vast systems of oppression. We acknowledge independently our shared and differing levels of privilege and oppression within these systems. We acknowledge the usage of these words like “privilege,” “oppression,” “systems,” is alienating and makes us in the image of liberal elitism itself. In this effort though, we attempt a self-aware critique, built by Black and Chicana feminist literary traditions. To have self-awareness is the first step in the relinquishing of the comfort of a liberal politic with a vested interest in white supremacy, and it is a constant project that extends miles and years beyond the margins of these pages.
As you read on, we ask that you think about the institutions that allow you to exist within whatever level of privilege you have or believe you have. Within the liberal university, championing diversity and tolerance has become a staple for attracting new students eager for an education. Despite their outward appearances, with brochures of multiracial friend groups lounging in a quad, these universities demonstrate a severe lack of introspective understanding of themselves. The liberal universities and larger structures in our lives create a kind of reductionist understanding of us, conflating us into singular identities, which are used to make us “knowable,” “visible,” and ultimately, controllable. They acknowledge but do little to mediate the marginalization of bodies of color, while at the same time promoting allyship and understanding. These universities are subject to a racialized capitalism, one in which embracing multiculturalism translates into high profits. Universities even accept students from lowerincome backgrounds so that they may cash in on federally serviced financial aid. This zine aims to scratch away at these mechanisms of control to reveal more complicated layers of ourselves and how we engage with ourselves in activist or cultural settings. !
We ask you to critically think about what in your political ideology—whatever it is—affords you a certain level of security, and we ask that you temporarily let those security systems down. We want you to make yourself vulnerable and allow yourself to think about the scenarios and creative pieces we present in a way that shifts you away from any preconceived understandings you have of politics, identity, or ideology. In so doing, we hope that you will be able—as we hope we are able—to criticize the epistemological ideologies and curated knowledges that make the world we live in a reality. In discord, Us. !
To whom do we owe this to? How can i profess to name them all? To those in the academy who nourished us in human ways, who pressed a hand to my shoulder as I struggled to string words together in class, my heart sputsputtering. To the one who in the retreat of her office, pulled me in for a hug as I confessed the secret that had been living in my chest, that knot of despair, grief, remembering, pain. To the one who taught me to see and speak back to my ghosts through Asian American literature, who told me that he has been waiting for work like mine, that he “really needs work like this.” They are the ones who remind me that I belong in this classroom, that when we dive into things with a critical & creative intimacy, we produce the intellectual critique that is part of my life’s work, my purpose as a body of color who found her way here from a country away, from her homes in fractured hybrid languages, from a vantage point of failure. To my women friends who taught me a different kind of knowing, who taught me never to accept anything less than what is blooming and joy. Who every time I speak to, I feel creative energy brimming at the borders of my body (how porous they are when we are together) & who unlatch the well of emotional power within me and encourage me to continue living each day. Radical vulnerability.
To the writers who form a genealogy of strength and a wealth of folk, hybrid, and diasporic knowledge before me. Their words help me to conceive of a different world where it is possible to not just survive, but to thrive. Who teach me that every day we deserve more.
To those who have shown me what it means to genuinely care who feed my mind and otherwise who with words and gestures give visions beyond oppression who reinscribe power with love they are friends, partners, poets, drafters of the maps towards rarer and better things
To the writers and poets who held my hand in a closet, whose words comforted my solitude and silence, and gave me the strength to speak. And to those who out of fear and necessity are compelled to remain inside. You are valuable. To my parents who taught me to read, who worked tirelessly so that I could go to school. I am because of you. As I walk through the world, it is your humility and kindness that leads me home, reminding me who I am. To the young boys who bruised me with words and fists, and the men who do the same. You taught me about pain and awoke me to my power. I am no longer afraid of you. I walk on. To the men and women of color in my life who show me another version of truth. Who inspire me to question the veracity of my world, and teach me how to be a bridge. I am in awe of your strength and energy, and I owe you much.
To the seventh grade math teacher who introduced me to kung-fu movies and believed my conspiracy theory about our middle school being biased against me, even if it was baseless. You were the best teacher I never had. To writers who are neither insider nor outsider, whose works are called inauthentic, who were not “browned by the same sun as the masses.� Your liminality has inspired me to explore my own identities, and by extension, critique them. To the English teacher I had twice, who introduced me to Toni Morrison, JD Salinger, and Ursula Le Guin, among many others. The shamelessness with which you approached your job--dressing as tragic Shakespearean characters, reading aloud dramatically, encouraging literary exploration--cemented my desire to teach. To cartographers of Asian Americanness. Navigating and mapping your experiences is integral to the cultivation and preservation of an Asian American canon. To my mother, who raised me and three siblings without the help of a husband. It was not a perfect childhood, but you deserve all my respect. I hope you are proud. To the professor who introduced me to women of color feminism, to Audre Lorde and Angela Davis and bell hooks and Barbara Smith and Trinh T. Minh-ha. Your overwhelming intellect, wit, and passion have been the driving forces in my decision to pursue further education. To the young folks of the Philippines currently fighting against a president whose policies include assassinating drug users and ignoring infant mortality and child labor. The resilience and determination you show in the face of difficulty is nothing short of astounding.
To my nieces and nephews, the future I work for and the change I try to bring, it is all for you. The soured world that has puckered my lips force me to use my hands to create something sweeter. Although the effort sometimes results in something bittersweet, that’s part of it too, to lay down a path for you to learn, learn from mistakes and triumphs, to never forget just how resilient we can be, have been, will continue to be. To all those in the struggle, whether it may be to get out of bed, survive, create, keep food on the table, choking back the venom, or spitting it in the face of that which has tried and continues to fail to keep you down. We’re in the struggle, a struggle that shapes our decisions but will never fully define the person we are, and the person we strive toward becoming. To every Trick, Daddy, and Mommy whose money was funneled to yet another institution, and will undoubtedly morph into more social critiques of the true value of education or the price of sanity or the fetishization of book-smart women of color. Thanks for the job opportunities and the orgasm endorphins. To my ancestors for every scorched back in the fields and screaming baby at dry breast, who carried our family one step closer to full bellies and fitful rest. Your language still lies thick on my tongue, and it will be valued for its merit.
discourse on the imperialistic effects of the english language in the style of m nourbese philip
english is a tongue tongue ton/gue ton/gue guey weigh english is a tongue that weighs a ton english is discourse of course of force this force of english a heavy force, a ton a tongue that weighs a ton my father spoke english used metaphors as a means of force happiness is a warm gun a smoking gun a figure of speech is a figure of speech a figure / of speech a figure of speech english, english, english, english,
a a a a
verbal paralysis verbal peril is this spoken tongue smoking gun
my mother spake english this foreign blanket language mad a foreign aching anguish my father spoke the english language my mother spoke in waning languish english is a tongue
Street Talk/Walk I’m in the city Am the city noise of constant motion and Rush of shifting faces A sense of options So much information So much is left to interpretation—the jag you think is a dagger as the Man says faggot but really says father to someone out of range This is how shoulders hunch and stay scooped how heads stay down Feeling eyes upon you, walk to the door If walking to the train in summertime and you want to show your legs— take the long route, cross to the other side of the street If you walk parkside, men on the benches will call you faggot, spit toward you jut their chins and make kissy Faces at you and sometimes even follow close behind With a friend, you will forget to pay attention When walking with Alice or Genevieve or Charlie
or Cate or Rachel or Marisa or Hannah or Leah they say walking with you six foot two feels safer They get less shit and spit and suck from men, and while you think god damn, my faggot ass makes men hesitant? While you of course oblige you realize that this is a safety exchange With friends, you think less about a jeer we are stronger together These rules are subject to change at any time and you may be hit or spit on Duane Reade spit on Bushwick Lower East Side spit on Man on the subway shouting at you from across the way Feeling eyes upon you walk to the next car There is a kind of power in being reviled for just being My scooped shoulders, the snake of my neck, my bare legs strike frenzy I scare them terror or maybe desire, hate so powerful it destabilizes something about their everyday Something
simmering up from the underground Something bubbling, shuddering under the brushstrokes of city lights That is not a power I have, but have been granted Sometimes it’s more than I can handle, more fear than I want stirring in my wake.
Referring(to(My(Habit(of(Skipping(Stones(Across(the(Water( ( There(is(more(barbarity(in(eating(a(man(alive,( than(in(eating(him(dead.( Swallow(the(bravest(girl(there,( torn(by(tortures(and(the(rack,( bitten(and(mangled(by(dogs(and(swine,( not(among(ancient(enemies,( but(among(neighbors(and(fellow(citizens,( the(worthy(members(of(society(and(the(crown—( who(fights(destruction(with(wings(and(air,( with(a(slightly(raised(waistline(and(sweeping(train,( a(fancy(dress(made(of(white(linens(with(lace(inserts,( with(SCcurved(silhouette,( polite(and(attentive(to(rich(and(poor(alike,( who(watches(as(her(children(go(hungry,( in(this(land(of(health(and(promise,( who(sees(lives(eaten(away(by(poverty(and(suffering,( child(labor,(low(wages,(sexual(harassment,(( discrimination,(poor(working(conditions,(tainted(crops,(( starving(refugees,(overpopulation,(nuclear(proliferation.( Strip(bare(and(magnify(the(contents(of(her(unconsciousness,( the(most(beautiful(things(in(a(varied(and(unfortunate(life.( ( It(does(not(matter.( It(will(be(shown(that(the(attempt(is(not(overly(successful.( She(is(systematically(and(constitutionally(mischievous,(( like(a(rogue(elephant,(a(tiger(at(twilight,(a(ghostly(sight,( she(is(a(princess,(ask(the(farm(workers,(ask(the(teenagers,( killing(themselves(in(epidemic(numbers,(( an(attempt(every(minute,(one(teenage(suicide(every(two(hours,(( in(an(almost(utopian(spirit—( she(is(a(princess(of(the(forces(of(a(history,(( which(cannot(be(stopped,( full(of(feeling,(roasting(bit(by(bit,(harboring(so(very(greatly,( life(and(chaos,(in(flight(wingtip(to(wingtip,(birds(of(sadness( producing(euphoria(that(cannot(be(reversed,( for(once(social(change(begins,(it(cannot(be(reversed,( you(cannot(uneducate(the(person(who(has(learned(to(read,( nor(humiliate(the(person(who(feels(pride,( nor(oppress(the(people(who(are(not(afraid(anymore,( these(are(not(escapes(from(but(enlargements(of(reality.( Instead(of(crying(she(paints(pictures(of(herself(crying,( social(criticism(and(philosophical(reflection,( as(we(have(not(only(read(but(seen(with(fresh(memory,( the(paintings(like(brisk(air(made(our(eyelashes(limp.(
( ( ( So(swallow(the(bravest(girl(there,( for(the(conscious(experience(of(pleasure.( The(storm(will(hover(until(the(triumphant(moment,( where(she,(a(working(class(woman,(one(person,( resists,(regardless(of(what(the(future(holds,( cannibals(and(philosophers(roasting(and(eating(her,( because(injustices(continue(and(we(must(remain(organized,( in(the(world(in(which(we(live,( where(despair(is(an(increasingly(common(response,( an(overwhelming(sense(of(helplessness(and(hopelessness,( being(lashed(by(cruelty,(turning(into(sputtering(wrecks,( an(atmosphere(of(the(war(on(drugs,( where(arguments(claim(that(money(spent,(( building(suicide(prevention(barriers(on(a(bridge,( would(be(better(used(catching(child(molesters,( because(they(are(a(main(reason(people(jumped(off(bridges,! claiming(one(thing(without(any(proof(or(change,( and(what(is(worse,(with(the(pretext(of(piety(and(religion.( But(she(rose(under(firelight(to(think(like(God,( to(think(of(important(objections(and(scars,( and(react(with(warm(informality(and(conscious(altering(effects.( You(cannot(escape(the(inevitable(or(consume,(( the(speed(of(change,(the(formless(self.( (
a list of asian american actors whose names you will probably recognize
constance wu randall park lucy liu kal penn margaret cho maggie q john cho ken jeong bd wong jackie chan mindy kaling steven yeun
The Labor of “Bad Girls” for Whom Sexuality is “Part of the Job Description” At a time when the aesthetic demands, Its emphasis on the body can even determine one’s career prospects A human being cannot be nude—flawed and vulnerable— In which the naked body is ordinary, Naked is real, all too human, But an abstraction transcends human imperfection, Approaches taught in graduate school offer limited preparation For conceiving the self as much mentally as physically For mind and body, in all of us, are one, Rethinking, reimagining, and retelling How sexuality is not only performed but also Is commercialized and often illegal, Sexual stigma, the heterosexism embedded within The organization of commercial sex; Talking about money is harder than talking about sex, Its value, embedded in the visual, Faces less likely to be seen ‘naked and unadorned’ Including women who engage in sex for drugs, Sex workers regularly using condoms earning 79% less, Sex for monetary exchanges, telephone sex operators, Call girls and escorts, dominatrixes, erotic dancers, Street-level prostitution to indoor commercial sex work, To online connections, work in private homes, or BDSM Economic incentives to risk, rather than a real lack of information Separates the women who would do such a thing for money From the women who would never do such a thing for money, What woman would deliberately make herself into a monster? Before you can seduce with the aid of makeup You must be seduced into wearing makeup, Appearance determines awareness, It enhances the various expressions of human mimicry, But the façade increasingly blurs the distinction Between disguise and identity Surely her mind is as monstrous as her flesh, —Naturally or with the help of drugs, Exploring through the consciousness altering effects—
To build up what the body is already breaking down. Not only sex worker, but partner, friend, community member, But the costumers hope to firm up their own self-confidence And need fulfillment on every level: Food, beer, liquor, voyeurism, sex, and recreation, A fascination with the woman-as-thing, who mimics a commodity, Aristotle’s gold-coin swallower, Aquinas’ sewer, the mistress of kings; They’ve learned to want all of the taste with none of the calories, Or the costumers hope to firm up her self-confidence When drugs are an effective means to temporarily Stymie the flood of negative emotions, Regular clients who advised her to quit, she was “worth more than that” Believe that the questions they are asking are worth asking ‘Were you ever sexually abused as a child?’ Collected life histories purposefully ambiguous in their self-presentation Because it suggests an ideal of beauty, Reinforced by the use of models and film stars, Challenges to how our sexuality was coconstructed With actors inside and outside, helped to ‘make “whores” seem vile’, In need to ‘Make something of themselves’ Who are the actors involved and what are their roles? The worker may be considered merchandise; the customer, an exploiter. Harsher laws implemented, exacerbating the isolation, Vulnerability of young, innocent victims, seduced and betrayed, Overwhelmed with hunger, even subjected to physical violence, Recalling the very first trick she turned on the streets, Her most salient emotion was terror, Is this a ‘come-on’? Did I do something to encourage it? Everyday sexual interruptions, innuendos, or interludes are implicated Often your being is sexualized in ways that you cannot control There is also explicit flirting, seduction, and propositions Growing fear that sex work (and the interrelated drug use) would take her life Five found dead in garbage cans, a lifeless body found rolled up In a carpet behind a restaurant decorated lavishly with stain glass Windows with richly carved woods The most beautiful things in a varied and unfortunate life Encounter a complex of misunderstanding, hostility, and critique Although the women occupy different dimensions
—not only because of the way Arguments appear to be driven by emotion, It is usually women, within academia and out, insisting “There must be other options,” or puzzling if they’re victims Of a patriarchal system forced to sell their bodies, Especially when she recalled he clung to her like a monkey, And she held his hands so she wouldn’t fall off, Or are they women who use their sexuality for profit, Free to wield sex and sexuality as tools, And derive benefits from this engagement? “Feminists” considering sex work to be a form of slavery, Falling along a continuum of victimization and empowerment, Given personal circumstances, experiences, and working conditions; It isn’t like that. There’s good and bad. Now people want it without the bad, But to ‘sell yourself ’, whether this self is engaged in sex, Politics, sport or any number of other activities, is prostitution; A form of status or simply as a means to an end? But always moving viewers, consumers, to contemplative states, For the conscious experience of pleasure leads to objection, Who has arranged her mass with such disregard For the fantasies of femininity that it maintains? The dream is to be flawless (Today more than ever before), Central in managing their safety, like maintaining health, Choosing specific locations in which to work, Making clear decisions about which clients to see where, In order to ensure you can continue to work and benefit, Don’t scowl, just seethe, just smile when he half-jokingly says, ‘I really resent that you ladies are just after my money,’ Only half-jokingly say, ‘I don’t want this chump change, I want your fucking job, love.’
calling in/out myself and my people This piece is heavily directed towards white folks, and the intention I have set is for beginning a project of consciousness amongst us white folk that is self-aware, non-essentializing, reflective, and focused. I wish to begin such an effort with acknowledgement that the following argument has and will continue to be voiced by anyone not enshrined in the veil of whiteness. My work is not new, groundbreaking, a stroke of genius. I will be using this as mere exercise for myself in recalling and deconstructing my blindness to my own oppressive behavior, and in this effort a collective awareness can be fostered. My fellow white people, we look at each other and at ourselves, and we believe in our ideas, thoughts, impressions of reality, why else would white cisheterosexual men get the license and agency to make their universalist art at the expense of another’s trauma, would racial categories even exist, would we perceive an idea of liberalism? A suggestion I have for understanding manifestations of white supremacy, which is a logic I have found helpful in the past for unpacking my own power, is to consider yourself historically. How did you get to the position where you now find yourself reading this short essay? Can you drift into sleep at night with the thought of tomorrow fixed securely in your mind? I know I can. I often forget that knowing is a possibility. I am unaware of knowing I don’t have to consider
another Metrocard swipe, or that I can find relatability in the words of the Western canon, or a doctor who doesn’t pathologize me. Whiteness allows this for myself and my people, and often we don’t need to think about that fact either. My white body is a perfectly machined product of a massive historical process. My parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, they ate well, slept well, lived well, flexing their financial muscles to gain them the knowledge, food, and political power they needed to survive. It may not have been much, but it worked because I now exist. Thinking critically about your own power in white supremacy is means the crumbling of entire systems of experiencing the world: the idea of politics, the meaning of knowing something, the biological category of race, the entire practice of medical science itself. Where do we go from this point? What are the motivations and implications of this simple identification of vast historically entrenched power? These are not questions I alone can or should answer. Instead, I can only offer the opportunity of collective work, mental, physical, whatever it may manifest as. This text is not the end point, but a sharing that should extend into the future beyond the bounds of this page. So take your own notes, make your own conclusions, teach me things about our privilege, think beyond ourselves but stay in our lanes.
Dear Grandpa, I want to tell you a story This is a traditional story, this story comes from the ancestors This story is my story/your story/not my story The story of Ellis Island and Trail of Tears story of tradition and cages, like an Edward Curtis photograph of high copper cheekbones— totemic, fabricated— of genocide and survival of white lies and whitewashing This is a story of fear: Fear cages, feeds secrets I don’t want to set you up for a racial encounter, but Indians are reluctant to tell our stories to strangers There is no such thing as “Indian,” but now there is no turning back Instead there is turning over, bounding out of bed and headfirst into the hammer of stars with a scalding spoon full of identity soup My sister and I sometimes talk about
being like you/not like you being White/Indian Who dictates identity Blood quantum is an American invention whereby the “Indian problem” solves itself through assimilation So like how much Indian are you really? people ask through skeptical white teeth Yet everyone can yell/tell I’m a fag Part of me in sharp relief, a part of me partly hidden My cousin Arthur lives in Oklahoma, says so many voting members live off-rez I wonder How much Indian carries with you when you leave and who deserves your story anyway? A story is performance, contextual tradition, living history class, like you and me, conquest hardwired into lingua franca—multiracial, neighborhoods, parts of speech, laborious pidgin tongues chopped and left writhing in the proto-memories of a drunk twentysomething with light skin Language is history—poly
phony of conquest So is absence of language Junction Waiting for the right word to emerge Grandpa presses his forehead, little hand against the back window of the government van Your parents disappear in a cloud of red dirt—swifted from the rez Stroke of legislation, to be Civilized They cut your hair, forbid you from speaking forbid heathen religion Say everything you know is wrong profane you are wrong profane your body your face your voice your language All of it wrong Kill the Indian, Save the Man—Sow a shame so deep it arrives when I do, it waits for me It pours me a drink Txts me Grandpa survives a little, but not everything Cherokee is gifted to dad for fear it’ll be ripped from him with the same swift wrench He makes it back but not everything makes it back home I search for it in a poem But poetry is selfIndulgent Writers
should never be the hero of their own work and at some point our stories diverge like the continents White and red borderlands as the universe expands it all moves slowly away Today I post a pic of Pangaea on Insta for #tbt Even geography is about moving on I’m so tired of hearing about everyone’s Cherokee great grandma like, it’s past my bedtime so I put myself to sleep too Who deserves your story? Not all stories Not my story, our story, who deserves this, particular, story? You/Me, Red/White, Good/Bad, Right/Wrong, Binary is my lineage, is another weapon of the oppressor Justifies conquest and is a method to ensure survivors, if there are any, will always question their right to literally just live I survive seven generations into a post-apocalyptic America that began in 1492 Maybe you’ll live too, but Why am I the one left?
Why do I have to know so many dead? What happened that made me, White, and You, a ghost? We are a war You and I the border between two countries the paradox that joins the two but also splits them apart Some things can go on forever, like looping “One More Time” by Daft Punk, or America’s colonial legacy aka “constant Debbie Downer” I find other people with internalized gnashing and I call them family There is no post-colonial America Look at the sun, go blind, or look away in denial from a mulch of bodies upon which we stack our lives.
an open letter to my grandparents dear lolo and lola (even though i never called you that), how are things back home? college is fun. i know i’m not studying any kind of engineering like you’d like me to, nor am i in nursing or medical school, but i promise you i’m doing something (at least somewhat) substantial. i live in new york and i pay thousands of dollars a month to read books. it must be everything you imagined when you came here in the 1970s. but hey, i’m the first one to go to college, so that’s a plus, right? when my mother was four years old (you said she was two for legal reasons), you came to the united states and got a place in key west, florida. now, i don’t know much about your time there, mainly because it was 24 years before i was born, but the way you reminisce about it makes it seem pretty great. then, at some point in the 1980s, you moved to california and have been there, in the same house, ever since. i go to a university that prides itself on being global. i always had a problem with the idea of ‘globalization,’ probably because i have seen growing up that forcing westernism on people like me--like us--has contributed to erasing whatever ties we may have back home. i was born in the united states and grew up knowing almost nothing about my filipino heritage, and part of that was for a lack of trying. it was weird growing up not wholly part of either experience. i called my siblings and cousins ate and kuya. i called any family friend auntie or uncle, because that’s just how filipino families worked. everybody was an auntie or uncle. but i was also obsessed with my whiteness. i began to learn german. i would spend hours with my grandmother--on dad’s side--talking about her family history, asking her about how so-and-so came to the states or when what’s-her-name got married. i never did that with either of you. and i really regret that. i wanted to be white for so long. after all, that’s half of me, right? i played the trombone, not the violin or the piano. i acted and studied--and continue to study--the humanities, not science or math. i played football (i think mom came to three of my thirty-three or so games. dad came to one, if you were wondering). i went to the white school, you know, the one twenty miles away, because i wanted to distance myself from my asianness. i hung out with all white people, went to their houses, called their parents by their first names. that still puzzles me. do you remember when you told my cousin that you never wanted to see her again because she shaved her head to say she didn’t need hair to feel beautiful? you called her ugly. i still think about that a lot. do you remember when my sister ran away from home and we got back to the house and she’d left a note on the armchair in the living room? i still think about that a lot. do you remember when my sister came out as gay, and neither you nor my mom wanted to talk to her? i think about that all the time. she has a boyfriend now. do you remember the time--or the many times--you called me brain-damaged whenever i made a mistake? i still think about that and i’m on my way to getting a college degree. but maybe i’m focusing too much on the weird or negative things and not the really great things. forty people at family parties, all eating sinigang and nilaga and lumpia and dinuguan and kare-kare and all the rice you could ever want. waking up in the morning to longganisa or tortas in the kitchen. christmas soup at six in the morning before everybody showed up because we always had christmas at your house. karaoke. having all the leftover food thrown onto my plate like i was some garbage disposal.
We are a collective of students at New York University who are actively committed to working against racial, sexual, heterosexual, and class oppression. We view our particular task as the development of an integrated practice and analysis based on the fact that the major systems of oppression are interlocking. Our critique is directed at liberal ideologies surrounding identity and works to challenge the reduction and essentialization of contemporary identity politics in the United States to make way for a nuanced consideration of difference in our current political moment. We believe in the potential of collective work inspired by our differences, that the production of art and writing can be a means of processing sorrow, anger, guilt, and pain, and transforming these experiences from conditions that underlie our survival to the fuel that drives our collective goal toward a thriving future.
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