Volume V Issue III by The Collective Voice

uc san diego

volume V, issue 3, march 2012

on undercurrents HARDEEP JANDU contributing writer

want me to go back. but violence exists even if i turn my face, even if i’m an ocean away.

1) DREAM, pre-India.

2) CUT: written on a sticky keyboard in delhi, india:

the other night, i had a dream about punjab. shaina and i are walking through delhi and we meet some family -- post-partition. go inside for chai. as i look at their shelves, i notice two framed pictures with funeral flowers around their perimeter. droopy petals of heavy, wilting jasmine. the photographs catch my eye; they look like female genitalia. not the flowery georgia o’keefe vulvas, but defiant vaginas. as if the pictures are menstruating. the raw reds and maroons stare at me. as i turn to ask a question about the funeral flowers, the sikh family responds for me. no. the photos aren’t of genitalia, but of burnt bodies. the way the beautiful mother of emmett till insisted that her son’s casket remain open, this family insisted that their funeral pictures of their dead kids show their burned bodies. then violence begins again. my dream becomes a weird mixture of stories i’ve heard before: the massacre at amritsar, the partition, “1984”, bollywood films. people begin dousing themselves and each other with gasoline. sharp objects come out — the violence doesn’t even have a particular victim. it is indiscriminate. hindus muslims sikhs children women men — all of them are burning and red and raw. images mix with genitalia, mix with the colors of holi, as gun powder mixes with powders of celebration. i scream and scream and look for shaina. i wake up. my suburbia is quiet and calm. india is calling me. i know this is the violence my dad is referencing, this is the reason he doesn’t

back in the day, my best friend k-yau and i loved rappin; we would freestyle about doughnuts, our crushes, and being word warriors. as we would drive in her car, she would rap along with kanye west: “everything i’m not made me everything i am.” everything im not made me everything i am. everything im not made me everything i am. then we should look at each other. “i know.” “yup. i don’t know what strength is, but i often catch myself wishing that i was a stronger person. i don’t carry myself very loudly. but here, in india, the energy of these womyn is torrential. they are dually soft and strong. their eyes are penetrating and sharp. i’ve tried emulating them, but i fumble over my words, mixing up my punjabi, hindi, and urdu. my gaze finds the floor. my eyes don’t feel sharp. they feel apologetic. i am shy and frustrated, sometimes tearful about the loss of my native tongue. for so long, what i felt for india was nostalgia — nostalgia for my parents’ happiness, grandparents’ independence, their stories of our village. nostalgia for speaking in a language close to my heart. having some coagulated sense of self. but now that doesn’t remain. everyone is dispersed

REAL TALK: SEX AND HOOK UPS ANONYMOUS

contributing writer

Conversation on Hook-Up Site WG: Hi LB: Hi WG: What are you doing? LB: Ummm, having a critical conversation about the objectification and usage of brown bodies with one of my friends WG: I like subjectifying brown bodies LB: FUCK YOU.

ucking white guys. Fuck this shit. I hate knowing that because of the size of my body and the color of my skin my body has been socially predisposed to be commanded, controlled, and policed by others. So because Im shorter that means I want your dick up my ass? Because I have that spicy Spanish tongue that means I want your dick in my mouth? Because I’m younger that means I want your old nasty wrinkly ass body lying on top of me? Push me against the wall. Throw me on the floor. Pull my hair and sink your teeth into my shoulders. Leave me these bruises. Muffle my mouth. WHEN YOU FEEL MY BODY CRINGE—STOP. These aren’t moans, this is a call for help. No doesn’t mean yes. No means GET THE FUCK OFF MY BODY. Am I to blame? I mean, didn’t I put my body in this position? Didn’t my look, my walk, my smile—all invite you in? When I smiled and looked away, didn’t I basically ask you to come to me? This is an invite to get to know me, not take advantage of me. When your body is

Hardeep Jandu

see UNDERCURRENTS on page 8

sweating, and your breath heavy, I just want to leave. Where am I to go? How do I just stop? I want to escape so bad, but I cant help but keep silent. We are done and all I feel is this cold sweat. Your heavy breaths held the moonlight down. My gaze turns away and I no longer see or feel your chest rise and fall. I’m meeting my brother I say. I have to meet friends. I’m missing my study group. Escape. Don’t coerce me to stay, brother. There is a reason I am leaving, brother. I’m trying to escape myself. This body. This mindset. These traps. Post cuming—where am I at with my body? My emotions? desires? thoughts? My neck—tattooed with hickies and my shirt sprayed with the sweat of who knows which person I danced with. The moonlight falls and the sunlight rises. What is my purpose for writing all this shit? I don’t feel better. I wonder and think of touch. At what point do these gentle kisses become bestial actions? My purpose for all of this is to return my humanity. To give myself back sense of existence that didn’t depend on immediate sexual satisfaction. Perhaps I am just being overly critical. “You think too much.” Sometimes, we have sexual needs and sometimes this thirst likes to be quenched—to drink in the moonlight. Maybe what we are missing is that the act of sexual intimacy is not wrong, but rather the manner in which we conduct ourselves during this unity. For me, the best porn I have ever seen occurs see REAL TALK on page 4

golden REYNA contributing writer

i was liquid ore in the safety of her arms drops of gold ran down my body everywhere her fingers trailed neck, face, jaw, collarbone gilded and precious her slow frictions extracted the poison from my skin and collected in her palms, they suffocated in shallow breaths, finally destroyed in the honesty of my eyelids slamming shut in the abyss of my closed eyes i saw fear, pleasure, hesitancy, urgency, trust colliding her gentleness reclaiming the touches once stolen from me through her hands, calloused and soothing, i finally found the clarity to demand that my body be loved more than i have ever imagined possible

uc san diego

volume V, issue 3, march 2012

V I S A-TTING AM ERICA about the MILOSZ JAN MISZCZYŃSKI contributing writer

:40 am. About 30 people stand outside a grand building in freezing January weather. They are hopping in place and rubbing their hands to warm themselves up. Next to them is a rather old police car. Inside two policemen take a nap while listening to the radio. A group of people stands quietly. It is composed of people of different ages. The older generation has suits and their best clothes on. They look like they were going to church on Sunday. The others casually pretend that they don’t care but they keep on peeking towards the big glass door. They don’t know it yet, but they are waiting for a young man with black glasses in his twenties. He is late. When he comes, he unkindly tells everybody to lower their voices and queue. He takes papers and passports and gets furious whenever somebody does something that he considers inappropriate. He neither answers questions nor smiles. His job is to collect the documents and give people plastic numbers. During communist times, for most Eastern Europeans the United States was an object of desire. The borders were closed and getting a passport was impossible. People believed that behind the iron curtain there was endless freedom, wealth and democracy. The USA was a faraway ideal. It was a dreamland which people contrasted with their gray and drab reality. Western movies, Marlboros and Coke were the symptoms of ultimate luxury. American as an adjective always had a positive connotation. This US-love was reinforced by packages from relatives in America and stories about people who successfully migrated and started new self-made lives. Getting to the paradise was, however, almost impossible due to the complicated regulations and gigantic costs of arranging a visit. 8:20 am. Everyone has handed their papers to the young man, and after a long wait, the heavy glass door of the grand building opens. The policemen in the car do not wake up. Inside the building, three security guards give standard instructions, like at the airport. Coats, belts, keys and hats off and proceed through the security gate. A fourth man observes the screen with the appearance of a wax figure. Five people from the waiting group encounter a problem. They are identified as a security threat because of their purses, bags or mobile phones. In order to clear their records they have to get rid of them. They are informed that there are no lockers for Polish citizens; the ones in the lobby are for Americans only. They are directed outside the building to a private cloakroom, which is actually a paid shelf in the one of the few bars open that early. Polish migration to the United States continued after the collapse of communism. Like most former communist states, Poland has developed economically since 1990 and tried to establish its position in Europe. Accession to the European Union in 2004 fulfilled an ambition to be a part of the Western world. Poland became a participant in the common market. Poles were allowed to work in most of the EU states. The accession launched a big wave of immigration, estimated at two million people out of the 40 million Poles in Poland. All of a sudden, the Polish language started being spoken on the streets of Dublin, London and Madrid. US enthusiasm became moderate. War in Iraq, Polish NATO membership, costly visa procedures, and the proximity of alternative migration sites broke the spell of endless love for the stars and stripes. 9:00 am. The fastest were able to sit on six chairs. The rest are standing in a half circle while two ladies behind bulletproof glass read names through loudspeakers and call one person after another. With cold blood and no smile they collect documents and reply to no questions. One of the men, when called, by mistake takes the lady as a consular official. Although he was not asked, he nervously explains that he has graduated in IT studies and he does not cur-

rently have a job. The lady gives him the evil eye and orders him to a take a number. After showing the receipt of payment for their visa applications, the participants are directed to a claustrophobic room with a permanently closed window and rows of chairs. The TV on the wall repeatedly displays images from the Grand Canyon and Capitol Hill. Four cameras observe every move of the group, perhaps to gauge if the participants were enjoying the videos. I was born five years before the transition in Poland. I grew up in a developing country and was able to travel and study everywhere I wanted. I lived in Spain and Germany, and graduated from a British university. My PhD work put me in Romania. I attended international conferences. I naturally developed a European identity. Getting a chance to receive a scholarship to go to the United States made me realize that I had never been tempted to go there. I had the feeling that America was too far away and too expensive. I am not from a generation who thought that the US equals land of opportunity. I hated the idea of applying for a visa but had no choice. I started with a 20-page-long form, which contained a lot of specific personal questions. Formulaic security questions made the whole thing look ridiculous. Clearly no terrorist will admit being one when applying for a visa. The form is only in English and is complicated even for people with high fluency in English. After attaching a photo, for an extra thrill I was then obliged to register myself in a database of foreign scholars (SEVIS). Filling in ten gaps cost me $180 of an entry fee. This was in addition to the visa fee of about $140. As if that was not enough, in order to schedule an appointment in the Consulate, I had to call a hotline which charges a sack of gold per minute. There, a rather unpleasant lady read me half of the 20-page form and things that I had already read and knew by heart. She also ordered me to spell my name using the first letters of other names twice, give my passport details, parents’ names, and just to confirm repeated everything all over again! It was an expensive spelling class! 11:00 am. For about an hour the group is interviewed. Every person has a short, five-minute conversation. Depending on the visa they are applying for, they are asked questions about their finances, job in Poland, reason to go to the US, and family. Everything happens in a very small space so the waiting group hears the answers of most of the interviewees. Two older men united by their boredom even start a running commentary! A common practice when walking away from the bulletproof glass is telling the group “it went well!” This is to give people courage and works better than goodbye or good luck. By 12 pm the group has broken up. It takes three to five days to print the visas. Passports are delivered by a courier company, which charges on delivery. The visa process I described seems like the welcome of an uninviting host. Unlike some of my Polish predecessors from the 1970s, I am not going to paradise but to a country called the United States. I am not going there for money - actually I will spend my money there. The length of the visa procedure makes it uncomfortable. An investment of more than 350 non-refundable dollars to cover the procedures is annoying. The fact that you pay it all before you are sure that the visa will be issued does not help matters. Moreover, nobody says a word to justify the process. Except for the web page, nobody dispenses information and consulate employees seem to be unsmiling automatons. Having experienced two visa interviews in the last six months, I was able to read between the lines and understand that people have no other choice than to agree with the situation. They feel obliged to follow the procedures and be kind to the consular official whose decision makes the visa happen. A visa is an expense, just like a plane ticket. And all the standing, waiting, explaining, apologizing and thanking is a part of getting there. see VISA-TTING on page 9

theme

a litany for survival With cover pages of radioactive pop-art prints of Chancellor Fox in military garb, to themes like Thankstaking and Another University is Possible, it is clear that this newspaper addresses capital-P Politics. However, we believe that healing, wellness, and coping are just as important as protesting and running programs. One cannot have resistance without resilience. In this issue of The Collective Voice, we take time and space to honor the personal as the political, and to focus on the often overlooked work of emotional justice. We borrow our theme from a poem by black lesbian feminist, Audre Lorde: “A Litany For Survival.” A poem close to our souls, it speaks alternatively of voice and silence, fear and bravery, existence and survival. Check out the poem on page 5, reprinted from The Revolution Starts At Home, a zine about confronting partner abuse in activist communities. Both have been useful resources in our struggles for growth and learning. We hope that the words of Audre Lorde take residence within you. And so we leave you with the last three lines of “A Litany For Survival:” “So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive.” live long, and prosper,

volume V, issue 3, march 2012

deep love

d i f f i c u lt n a v i g a t i o n s

ANONYMOUS

contributing writer

thirteen:

He pulled me by the arm into his bedroom. Glazed over by an incomprehensible urgency, he whispered and touched too many things I can’t and won’t remember. He implanted worms underneath my skin, schooling me in a compulsory heterosexuality. His hands left only after possessing mine. The worms remained. Years after they would shriek: but you deserved it, but you could have stopped it, but you didn’t, you didn’t love yourself enough. The worms became familiar friends and grew fat. I took the itching to mean that I was alive—after all, I could feel. Periodically they convulsed, imposing their false, fleshy pulse. Hating this body for hosting this poison, out came my fingernails, long and sharp, to scrub my surface raw. Revolting, red marks drew a topography of shame on my body.

to the worms, but to someone I had yet to grow into. I wept bitterly for the clarity of a me who could tell where love, friendship, sisterhood, desire, work, and organizing began and ended. Overwhelmed, I shut my mouth and lowered my gaze, fearful of the bile threatening to display my innards, green and terrible.

My sisterfriend is a babaylan, one who serves. A healer, a revolutionary, a shamaness. She reached out to me. Ungrateful, I was disgusted at myself for being such a mess that she counsel me in my own feelings. I must have flinched and hesitated, leaned away from her trying to disappear but she was generous. Her patience and gentleness reassured me in the depth of our friendship. Suddenly I remembered all the things I learned from her with startling clarity: That all people in this world are people to learn from. I will love many of them, many of them will be momentary but their wisdom is forever if I truly listen. She and I may be momentary TWENTY: as well. I will grieve when I realize the end, but until then I will I turned the page and read. Consent. Instantly I knew this cherish the time I have with her. I’ll smile as much as possible was what I was missing all along. Choice. Agency. No, no, no said and tell the corniest jokes so that she can laugh those beautiful the worms and my weaponized hands soothed them with painlaughs deep from her chest, like she means it. ful lullabies. My fingers plowed my skin, desperate to overtake That I have the power to choose who I want to be. That there the pace with which this knowledge filled the aching vacuum are infinite opportunities for growth and learning in my soul. within me. So bloated, I vomited tears for hours. The worms beThat the ambiguous and marginal is a site of power, of struggle, came fed up. They burst in rebellion, coating me with a putrid of strength if I labor for it. I can construct my identities to suit stench, but finally, they were evicted. me, so that my soul can travel this world in the warmth of its home within my ribs. TWENTY-ONE: Through all this, my queerness emerged as survival, deliberFinals week, winter quarter. Dry heaves at 3am. Somehow ate and resistant. This is beyond identity politics and wars of pothe worms returned and I felt every chew as they feasted on my sition. Through my queerness I am demanding the agency those anxiety. boys denied me long ago, the agency I was never taught by my They were incessant, always begging for clear lines, straight family simply because I was born female, the agency revoked and narrow furrows. But my heart too strong, too stubborn, from me because of this brown body. My queerness promises pumped blood that tangled and beat for my sisterfriend. It knew me the empowering creative process of self-identification and the multiple intense ways I loved her, cared for her. through it I have been re-born into a me who desires, wants, acts. I tried to pathologize these feelings but all I came up were snippets of the mundane, everyday. I liked her for nothing and I am in the struggle and I am unafraid. everything in particular. The way she walks through the door, hair askew, backpack, laptop, lunch, water bottle, notebook. Helping her on an assignment, watching as her grin grows wid- er and suddenly, composure lost, her laughter explodes at her She doesn’t feel the same about me but I’ve already let go. own humor. Her turned back as she pores over reports switching between multipl/e internet browsers and documents, refer- After all, my feelings were never about making her love me back ring to notes written in purple ink in a room with no windows. but about how she as a whole being nourishes me, even now deHer sleeping face, curled up on my bed for an impromptu nap. spite the distance I created. She broke my silence. She made me I attempt to realign my gaze, but self-indulgent I sneak more face myself. She sat next to me in the cold. Even/because I forgot glances; I couldn’t resist, her eyelashes called to me, beautifully how to trust and listen to her. I must have hurt her greatly and I’m so sorry. devious. These feelings, all the sudden strange and messy, transgressed all familiar demarcations. They didn’t belong to me nor Thank you. I won’t forget again. › REAL TALK from page 2

when both people are fulfilling each others sexual desires. It’s sexy to check in with the other person and ask what they like. Its sexy to see both people in pleasure, conscious of the movement of bodies; the ebb and the flow of an ocean and the moon. Grounded. Consensual. Often, like in clubs or most porn, I see this usage of bodies as objects rather than beings. Simple. One person bends over and the other fucks them shitless without concern, compassion, or care for the other person. Therefore, I suppose my message is not that sex is bad. It’s quite wonderful (but still over hyped). My message is that we need to deconstruct the root of our desires and actions in order to differentiate when we are using our bodies and when we are using our souls. By souls I mean our entire selves. By body I mean just our physical existence. I am upset because my body has been used as an object. I don’t want my body to be used or consumed, or even fetishized. I want to feel like my soul matters. My entirety, not just my

physical existence. My liberation is not solely a sexual one. It is spiritual. I want to feel our bodies in unison. For you to understand both the curves and turn of my body. The craters and the darkside. The shadows and the unknown, now known. Know me. Don’t just fuck me. What I am going to try and take away from this is an understanding of my spirituality so that I can be connected spiritually with someone else in a sexual act. That way, I am not using bodies and they are not using me. We are connected through an understanding of ourselves and therefore each other. To know myself is to know others. I can’t give others love if I have not first learned to give it to myself. “There is no justice without love.” Time to free/ deconstruct/ revolutionize my mind. I write this deliberately. Shame is a wonderful tool used to silence these experiences: proactive and taboo. Regardless, I write knowing that perhaps it is better to speak, remembering I was never meant to survive.

my my my my my

volume V, issue 3, march 2012

April 2007

my my

a B r o k e n b e a u t i f u l p r e s s p r o d u c t io n

The STUFF that make me FREE: my The STUFF that make me FABULOUS: my

your gifts to the world

The STUFF that make me FUNKY: my

your stuff:

This reclamation and proclamation illustrates, specifically black womyn reclaiming ourselves, the pieces, bodies, desires communities have harvested, historically and recently, for consumption. Lady in Green’s monologue is indeed a celebration of the reclamation of voice and herstory; and serves as an insightful glimpse into the importance of vocalization as expressive healing.”

“Each chakra in the body. In traditional healing arts, the color green is associated with the heart chakra thus, “Alla my Stuff” is an imperative thrust toward the Lady in Green’s reclamation of self and self love. Lady in Green reminds the audience of the universal/sound expression of love, self acceptance and allowance. She reclaims her own “tacky shirts”, her aired out vagina, “callused feet” her “arm wit the hot iron scar” as her story, her walk, ad her meditation on freedom, awareness and wholeness.

it... about think i mean, character in For Colored Girls personifies an energy field or

alongside Ntozake Shange’s For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf

: Stuff My healing with attitude

stealin’ my stuff don’t make it yrs/ makes it stolen””

CHECK OUT THE ZINE AT: http://incite-national.org/media/ docs/0985_revolution-starts-athome.pdf

____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________ ____________________________

what you have survived: _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ and what you want to create: _________________________________

So it is better to speak: _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________ _________________________________

#ONFRONTING 0ARTNER !BUSE IN !CTIVIST #OMMUNITIES

–“Lady in Green” in For Colored Girles

So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive. -Audre Lorde

And when the sun rises we are afraid it might not remain when the sun sets we are afraid it might not rise in the morning when our stomachs are full we are afraid of indigestion when our stomachs are empty we are afraid we may never eat again when we are loved we are afraid love will vanish when we are alone we are afraid love will never return and when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed but when we are silent we are still afraid

For those of us who were imprinted with fear like a faint line in the center of our foreheads learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk for by this weapon this illusion of some safety to be found the heavy-footed hoped to silence us For all of us this instant and this triumph We were never meant to survive.

A Litany for Survival For those of us who live at the shoreline standing upon the constant edges of decision crucial and alone for those of use who cannot indulge the passing dreams of choice who love in doorways coming and going in the hours between dawns looking inward and outward at once before and after seeking a now that can breed futures like bread in our children’s mouths so their dreams will not reflect the death of ours

Golden exercise and analysis by : Ebony Noelle worksheet by:Alexis Pauline Gumbs

4HE 2EVOLUTION 3TARTS AT (OME

uc san diego 5

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collective poems from

SPACES WINTER ALL-STAFF RETREAT

january 22, 2012

volume V, issue 3, march 2012

› UNDERCURRENTS from page 2

on various continents, or they’ve passed away. my roots have withered. even the village is gone. so a lot of my time has been spent imagining. what would have been like if we stayed here? imagining my dad as a young man in india — happy go lucky, popular, and incredibly handsome. how was it for him? and my mother, slender and graceful — but always so much more emotive and watchful than my father. the scale libra meets the slippery fish pisces. they are arranged into marriage and fall in love after. and me — what if i was married already? i imagine myself wearing cotton dresses, with my hair tied in a long plait down my back. how do so many realities meet? i’m sitting in a fancy cafe now. i can sit here because of my privileges, as an indian and an american. this cafe is situated in an outdoor bazaar for upper-class indians, adjacent to a slum. it’s ironic, this mall sells lots of art — large, garnished paintings of working class folks in india. exotifying india to itself by selling images of its own people to its 1%. yet this market is right next to a slum, and those bodies are kept from coming into this shopping bazaar — they’re only allowed for labor. right next to the mall and the slum is a tomb. it used to be a university, and now it’s a tomb. how do all these realities meet? how do they sit on the same train, the same bus?

3) diaspora

meaning spora. meaning spores and dispersal. united states and india. meets africa. meets the west indes. meets england. meets coloniz— no. meets loss. it means loss. neither here nor there.

4) cut to another dream:

we’re together and it’s sweet and slow. smiles and nuzzles. suddenly i panic and start crying and crying. our sheets stretch out like the sea, and my tears just start falling into them, silently and largely. you look at me, tilt your head, and wait. hold me. take me seriously. the dream moves into the lines of our hands; our head heart fate life lines becoming roads to travel upon. walk together. your eyes are so gentle i fall back asleep, even as i’m already dreaming. how and why is it that i feel so desirable and discardable all at once? so repulsive and yet — wanted? when did i become unable to be in myself? so i’m lost in experiences of hard ons and hardened hearts. your wet dreams, my wet pillows. they don’t validate me. you don’t give a fuck about me. for you and you and you and you to push me around and call that desire, slippin it in to call me a pretty face. to throw my love back in my face. it’s all left me wondering: what do i want? (there is a politic behind this — what do i want? as a south asian womyn i’ve been trained to not desire anything for myself. i’ve been taught to love and give. but what do i want for myself? how much space can i take up? how much love and respect am i entitled to?)

1) cut, a roof top conversation:

my friend, a soul sista, sat from me across the table. we were walking through a particularly shady neighborhood in Delhi when another monsoon downpour unleashed, so we ran for cover in the nearest cafe we could find. thus, we found ourselves on the seventh floor of an incredibly shifty building, sipping tea and picking at papaya. she looked right at me when she said, “i’ve never felt physically beautiful in my life.” damn. the words sat there for a while, lukewarm. that’s the shit that’s held her down her whole life. “me too.” “really—?” it’s only recently that i’ve grown accustomed to my face, you see. grown a familiarity for my strong brows, soft eyes, high cheekbones. i have no answers for her. wish i did. scoured my heart for some

soothing words — but no — no thing. just acknowledgment. “i know.” “yup.” and now you’ve moved back into my life. still, i don’t want my visions of myself framed around your eyes. don’t know if i want you in the periphery of my vision if you’re gonna take up central focus dil ki bhaat. laughing to myself because aap ko sirf ek hawa dekh ya meri dil ki. laughing to myself because aapke saamne itna pyar hai, jaise koi baadal dekhke asmaan ko bhool gaya. when i catch your gaze, however, your eyes seem like oceans - clear, bright, somehow older than anything else on this earth. i catch myself slipping.

6) cut to another conversation:

another middle-aged man just said to me, “you’re a pretty girl. a flower. you shouldn’t mind it if people want to pick at you. stare at you. stop thinking so much. you shouldn’t feel — …” me. i get hot-headed, bite my tongue, but on the real, i’m pretty fucking angry. no -- don’t tell me how to feel. i’m hurt. this is my reality. i know i’m putting a lot of anger into you (you who isn’t really a part of the story), but i’m angry that you can just sit there and be content with yourself. your body. your motives. your sex. and i don’t. that’s gender. that’s intimacy. that’s privilege. (hetero)patriarchy works in subtler, more intricate ways than racism, but i live through it every day.

7) lastly,

Hardeep Jandu

ma told me, her voice soothing into the telephone, we’re just specks of dust you know. and when you die, you’re gonna become a speck of dust again. i feel like such a greedy speck of dust. i want love and art and happiness and sometimes i do want privilege and i want to eat fruit so good and i want those juice stains on the inside of my wrists. i want to sit at the feet of people older and wiser than me. spend all night talking, and have them tell me stories until our eyelashes are too heavy for our sleepy selves. i want sunlight. i want to watch sunlight move in cups of water. no — i want to be free like sunlight. i am such a greedy girl. i want my spirit to take up space, to be large and expansive and warm like sunlight. but i feel neither not there. very much so a womyn — i am twenty now, and being in india has reminded me that i could have had a family by now — but i feel like a little girl still. a confused one. i am neither here nor there. i carry my american privileges and experiences, but i remain indian in longing. neither here nor there. want to carry my late-great grandmothers’ spirit on my own, and sometimes i feel her smile — but that’s all soul isn’t it. it’s all poetics. it’s neither here nor there. diaspora. loss. economy.

uc san diego

volume V, issue 3, march 2012

California Celebrates Fred Korematsu Day for the Second Year MARK YU contributing writer

ver a year ago, California Governor Schwarzenegger signed AB 1775, the Fred Korematsu Day of Civil Liberties and the Constitution bill. This bill officially commemorates Fred Korematsu for his civil rights activism during and after World War II. The bill is the first day named after an Asian-American in United States history. The holiday was observed for the first time last year on January 30, 2011, and the state will continue to commemorate Korematsu for many years to come. Mark your calendars and spread the word about this special day. Maybe you are wondering, what is so special about Fred Korematsu? Let me give you a quick dose of history. Does the United States Supreme Court case Korematsu vs. United States ring a bell to you? The case was held during World War II after President Franklin Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, which authorized the military to displace Japanese Americans from their homes to be placed in internment camps. When these orders were issued in California, Korematsu ignored them and became a fugitive. Once arrested, he ultimately challenged the Supreme Court. During the Supreme Court case, Korematsu questioned the legality of Japanese internment. The Supreme Court overturned his conviction, saying that the Exclusion Order was constitutional during circumstances of “emergency and peril.” Korematsu was then placed back into internment

camp. Many years still after his release, he constantly faced racial discrimination, which prevented him from getting jobs. During this time period, the public, including many Japanese-Americans, perceived him negatively for his opposition to government order. It was not until 30 years after World II ended that the government started to do a full investigation of the Japanese internment. In 1980, President Jimmy Carter appointed a committee to do this investigation. That committee concluded that the internment occurred because of “racism, hysteria, and poor government leadership.” Eight years later, Congress made an official apology to the internment prisoners and provided compensation. In 1998, President Bill Clinton awarded Korematsu the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor in the United States. He honored Korematsu by saying that “in the long history of our country’s constant search for justice, some names of ordinary citizens stand for millions of souls.” The Supreme Court decision was never fully overturned, and the fight to overturn it still continues today. This does not change the fact, however, that Korematsu has made a huge impact in the social justice movement by advocating for the preservation of civil rights of Americans during times of peril despite our differences in race and ethnicity. Mark Your Calendars: January 30, 2012… 2013… 2014 or should I say, remember this date for many years to come!

STUDENT REFLECTIONS ON FRED KOREMATSU DAY

• “Provides insight into current impact on Japanese American culture.” • “It inspired me to focus and become more socially aware.” • “Feel like I know more about my cultural heritage and history of social justice.” • “Realized how important Fred K’s struggle was to my personal freedom as a person of color.” • “I feel empowered to do social justice work.” • “I now know more about how corrupt and self-preserving the federal government is.” • “It impacted me very deeply. It told the stories that my grandfather and grandmother never told about their wartime experience.” • “Resolution for the year: “Courage.” • “As I am Japanese, I did not know how it was dangerous to be in the United States as an “enemy.” Fred Korematsu is very brave and very honest. • “I learned a lot about Fred Korematsu and also how those issues still impact us today.” • “More aware of what is happening around us, such as racial profiling and such.” • “I did not expect that Fred’s fight in the court was linked with racism. This is surprising for me.” ›VISA-TTING from page 3

men united by their boredom even start a running commentary! A common practice when walking away from the bulletproof glass is telling the group “it went well!” This is to give people courage and works better than goodbye or good luck. By 12 pm the group has broken up. It takes three to five days to print the visas. Passports are delivered by a courier company, which charges on delivery. The visa process I described seems like the welcome of an uninviting host. Unlike some of my Polish predecessors from the 1970s, I am not going to paradise but to a country called the United States. I am not going there for money - actually I will spend my money there. The length of the visa procedure makes it uncomfortable. An investment of more than 350 non-refundable dollars to cover the procedures is annoying. The fact that you pay it all before you are sure that the visa will be issued does not help matters. Moreover, nobody says a word to justify the process. Except for the web page, nobody dispenses information and consulate employees seem to be unsmiling automatons. Having experienced two visa interviews in the last six months, I was able to read between the lines and understand that people have no other choice than to agree with the situation. They feel obliged to follow the procedures and be kind to the consular official whose decision makes the visa happen. A visa is an expense, just like a plane ticket. And all the standing, waiting, explaining, apologizing and thanking is a part of getting there.

DID YOU KNOW: a UCSD professor is somehow related to Fred Korematsu In the early 1980’s, UCSD Professor Peter Irons found evidence that Charles Fahy, the General of the United States who argued Korematsu vs. United States before the Supreme Court, had suppressed reports from the FBI concluding that Japanese-American citizens posed no security risks during that time period. He also found documents that revealed that the military lied to Supreme Court. Irons challenged the Supreme Court’s decision as the constitutionality of the Executive Order 9066 was based on unsubstantiated evidence. With a team of lawyers, Irons petitioned to overturn Korematsu’s decision. Korematsu’s conviction of escaping internment was overturned in 1983. It was overturned because the government submitted false military information to the Supreme Court that had a profound effect in the Supreme Court’s decisions. Although the entire Korematsu case was not overturned, it is the first case in which the Supreme Court applied a strict scrutiny standard to governmental racial discrimination. However, the team has failed to overturn the decision, and so the fight continues today.

SUPER-RANDOM BUT AWESOME FACT: Korematsu made a speech about 9/11 and how the United States government must not repeat the same mistakes they made against Japanese-Americans during World War II to Muslim-Americans and Middle Easterners.

(Re)Discovering Courage LINDA CHANG staff writer

onday, January 30, 2012, marked the second annual Fred Korematsu Day of Civil Liberties and the Constitution at SDSU. SPACES sponsored free transportation from UCSD to SDSU. UCSD clearly had representation at SDSU as we took up one row in the lecture room in which the event was held. Guest Panelists included Junichi Semitsu (Professor at the University of San Diego School of Law), Susan Woo-Fukuda (who joined the effort to research and draft the Fred Korematsu Day legislation while studying law at the University of San Diego), Lt. Rudy Tai (of the Criminal Intelligence Unit), and—via skype—Assembly Member Marty Block (principal co-author of the legislation). The San Diego chapter of the Japanese American Citizen League (JACL) also attended the event. This event not only recognized Fred Korematsu but also informed us about the injustices that continue to occur post-9/11.

womyn of color collective

volume V, issue 3, march 2012

T he M irror by Alice Song, c o n t r i b u t i n g w r i t e r you hold up the mirror to my face and all you see are the inescapable blackness of my hair the dip of yellow tingeing the color of my skin the slant of my eyes. conjuring up exotic places far far away flashes of red silk kimonos whispering across floors white-faced women with long pools of black hair reclining on silk cushions swathed in spider silk jade and sparkling gold woven through their hair giggling gently behind fans of feathers and wooden carvings all for your erotic, exotic imagination. you know me because you see my reflection, reflecting (you think) all the intricate details of various cultures cooked together to serve the appetizing meal fit for your fantasies. my family my culture my history my life my struggles not knowing or caring about the years spent in ramshackle neighborhoods the sweat that rolled off dirty faces in grim blackened rivers girls weeping for our country as the fortresses of men invaded their territories the horrifying rivulets of blood that stain my history book in weeping wine-colored waterfalls but you ignore this because my real truth just isn’t sexy as the lotus-blossom-flower sexy-badass-ninja dragon-lady gigglingschoolgirl suckyfucky-prostitute docile-mail-order bride you see in the mirror of your desire. blood sweat and tears aren’t palatable for your consumption you don’t want to recognize your own guilt. you know me, you say. approaching me with your misguided truths manhandling me as if i’m your malleable mistress mistreating my language molding it so it suits the reflection you see in my mirror

Tiny People by Estevan Ramirez, c o n tr i b u ti n g wr i ter Tiny tiny people we are, and we still we grow smaller. A man can be 6’5 yet be reduced to the size of a grain of sand, not physically oh no! But emotionally! Yes, tiny tiny people we are to be littled by another human being. But being tiny allows us to slip through cracks and sneak away, but even the tiniest of things are put under a microscope and exposed. For so long we’ve been told we’re not equal, we are not the same. For so long it has been wrong to be a person of color. For so long we had to hide our love from the world. For so long we couldn’t show our affection for each other in public. For so long we have been portrayed dirty, we’ve been hated. We were made tiny tiny people. But our voices grew! And from our tiny bodies came giant voices and huge ideas. Our minds outgrew generations and years of oppression and we grew! Oh yes we grew! We are no longer tiny tiny people, we are great big voices and we have been heard. And our sound is beautiful.

B lack U mbrella by Louisa Yu, s t a f f w r i t e r Turn your head up with squinted eyes as droplets dance off the pores of wind blown skin. Wipe your powder red cheeks with damp cotton sleeves and blink once, twice, as lashes clump together in unison as we refuse to sink into and under these puddles-Rain is naked. Bare and naked like the soles of our feet, calloused with the stories we write with the sand left in between our toes and you looked up in delight that the rain would wash you and your stories away like rushing water into the sewer slits but have you ever heard of wishful thinking. Bare and naked like stripping every night and morning to scrape the dirt out from underneath our nails and turning our heads up, way up high with squinted eyes as droplets dance off pores of the polyester tended skin of restless nights. We used to have nightmares that the sun extinguished all its flames and the streetlights followed in unison until all the bulbs inside of us flickered once, twice, trying to remember the sun Before it went out Like every door that ever slammed straight in front of your face like the droplets that fall inches from your eyes off the ends of black umbrellas and some have said it’s like watching all the chances you’ve never taken drop one by one and explode onto the pavement and sometimes it’s hard to look back up. Rain is naked like ripping a heart out and handing it over beating with veins and all, naked like sweating beads of truth, naked like the umbrella thrown in the corner next to the dreams covered in dust because no one hears the rain if they can’t feel it. I guess I just wanted to ask where your black umbrella is And why you hold it clutched dearly to your body when the rain tries to drown out the dreams in you and why you tighten your grip as the handle gets slippery and you walk eyes fixed to the ground watching dreams soak the asphalt dark grey and I always wondered why you never try to catch them Because without that umbrella They’d rain onto you Until you were as naked And real As you always wanted to be

DESAPARECIDOS REGINE REYES co-editor in chief

our dia de los muertos is solemn absent of sugar skulls and marigolds rather than ghosts, paper haunts me: the list of names i should, but can’t recognize the maps that delineate me/you/mine/yours here/there/”home”/home the green in my pocket not in our pockets needed in your pockets i can’t mourn for these dead because i’m convinced they’ve been disappeared by globalization and colonization capitalism and militarism heteropatriarchy and judeo-christianity the disappeared occupy the space of neither dead nor alive, they simply exist in the mind, lingering the disappeared is marked by the body which is neither present nor absent just missing, just nowhere tito jun and the family i don’t know: you are all the disappeared and my whole life i’ve been missing you to death your shapes haunt me during sleep too many hands begging for food, while a young me, panics, because when power and privilege run out all i’m left with are empty palms giving everything is not enough not for the disappeared, not for those existing and missing nowhere

SPACES Practicum LTCS 198 Maps of Knowing: San Diego / the Self

Advisor: Professor Luis Cabrera, Literature and Ethnic Studies Self-Directed Group Study When: Spring 2012, Thursdays 4-6:50 Where: BSU / MEChA Resource Center 4 units, P/NP

How do we know? How do we teach? How do we map ourselves in the worl? What are the stories of San Diego and its community? Culture. Discussion. Media. Educational Equity. Activism. Social Justice. Empowerment. To enroll, please stop by at SPACES (Located on the 2nd floor of Price Center, next to Shogun) For more information, please email ucsdspaces. practicum@gmail.com. Thank you!

volume V, issue 3, march 2012

uc san diego

A REFLECTION ON THE

student of color conference LINDA CHANG staff writer

I am not the ALLY YOU FORGOT, I AM THE API SISTER YOU FORGOT Student of Color Conference at UC Davis changed my identity forever. In a way, the conference allowed me to wake up from being chained and become liberated, physically and mentally. My first year at UCSD was when the Compton Cookout occurred. At that time, I was at every demonstration because I knew that event was wrong. This was also the time I started writing for the Collective Voice. • I remember during the demonstration that combat the KKK hat and the Noose in the library, I was so disgusted and feared for my or was it other’s life? • I remember going back to Muir college and saw no signs of acknowledgement to the pain and suffering of our community • I immediately went to my dorm and made a sign that declared “STOP HATE.” This lead to a whole campaign of educating and asking other first years to join in solidarity. • My suitmates that helped along this campaign were queer, white, Jewish, Chinese American, womyn, men. • I remember when I was sitting in SPACES, one of the interns asked outloud, “ What do Asians think about this whole Compton Cookout?” • This question sliced my heart wide open. • “My black and brown sisters and brothers” • This question burned through my soul as I sat hearing this “community” speech -What is this “community” they are healing with? • I remember going to the API forum and had hoped this was not the only time a space like this would happen. • I did something I never thought I could ever do in this lifetime: I took the mic and spoke from the heart with passion and strength -I remember not tripping on my words -I remember hearing snaps -I remember feeling the love in the room -I remember to never forget this moment

by julieanne aquino , contributing writer

a letter to the me,

INSIDE & OUT

Now, 2 years later, I am at UC DAVIS in tears. I came to the conference with my knowledge from Asian AM studies class, my work at SPACES, and my involvement with the Coalition for Critical Asian American Studies. The opening ceremony had me in tears and I did not know why I cried. Reflecting on it now, it was not out of sadness, it was out relieved that the Asian American spoken artist/ professor had respect from the audience. It was the

fact that the Taiko performance had people’s attention and cheers. That was what made me move to tears. “Use me as a noose” a clear hate crime. It is thought of as an attack to the Black community, not many ppl know its an attack on all people of color communities which INCLUDES API. Nooses were used to kill every single p]community of color in America INCLUDING API. This moment at the conference brought me to tears once again. I did not understand at that moment why my reaction was in tears. My emotions escalated as I saw the audience different response to the Asian American Womyn professor vs Black Womyn speaker. Once the Asian American Womyn professor spoke, the crowd became loud. I heard mumbles that had a volume like a demonstration/protesting chant. • How can marginalized and oppressed communities not see us, API , as their brothers and sister? • How can they not remember the struggles our API mothers and fathers endured for the change in America? -Internment camps, refugee camps, concentration camps, immigrant acts, civil rights, slavery, laborers, -Our bodies were used and beatened to death even with a NOOOSEE!, how can you forget and continue the abuse of choking us with the Model Minority Myth?

volume V, issue 3, march 2012

CO-EDITORS IN CHIEF Liz Nguyen Regine Reyes

STAFF Linda Chang Erika de Guzman Laura Sanchez Louisa Yu

siaps college tour

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Anonymous Julieanne Aquino Hardeep Jandu Milosz Jan Miszczyński Estevan Ramirez Reyna Alice Song SPACES Cycle 5 Staff Mark Yu

UCSD SPAC ES February 11 - 12, 201 2

PHOTOGRAPHERS Linda Chang Hardeep Jandu SIAPS College Tour Womyn of Color Collective

ARTISTS Liz Nguyen

We want freedom

We want social unity and equality for all people on campus

We want to promote social awareness and combat social ignorance

We want to unite student activists and students with progressive values and common struggles

We want to educate others about ourstories and our true role in present-day society

The Collective Voice is a student-run, student-initi- Voice will help create a sense of safe space and commuated publication of UCSD’s SPACES, the Student Pro- nity for students who may otherwise feel unwelcome at UCSD’s challenging campus climate thereby conmoted Access Center for Education and Service. The mission of the Student Promoted Access Center tributing to existing retention efforts of campus. This for Education and Service (SPACES) is to act as an em- newspaper deeply values students’ voices by providing powering dynamic on campus where UCSD students an outlet for open dialogue and discussion surrounding issues and developments affecting their communities. collaborate to achieve greater educational equity. This Additionally, The Collective Voice allows UCSD’s encompasses equal access to higher education, underprogressive community to outreach, collaborate and graduate retention and graduation, and matriculation to graduate and professional schools. SPACES values communicate to the greater San Diego communities the power of student-initiated action and organizing outside of our campus. Most importantly, The Collective Voice, provides marginalized students and underby providing an environment for student growth and resourced students the empowering opportunity to development and thus is a foundation to create leaderprotect the representation of their identities and beship and unity through community engagement. liefs, and report alternative news that is not otherwise In line with SPACES’ mission of valuing “the power covered by mainstream media. The Collective Voice, in of student-initiated action,” “proving an environment for partnership with SPACES, allows for the creation of “an student growth and development,” and creating “unity empowering dynamic where UCSD students collabothrough community engagement,” The Collective Voice rate to achieve greater educational equity.” It is through is UCSD’s progressive newspaper that promotes social this mission that the collective of diverse voices in one unity, justice and awareness across the many communi- newspaper will actively demonstrate an empowering ties that exist on the UCSD campus. The Collective progressive community on the UCSD campus.

We want educational equity and to empower under resourced communities

We want to fight the rhetoric propagated by oppressive forces on campus

We want our beliefs, practices, and ethics to be illustrated in a correct light

We want peace. The ability to coexist on campus without fear of prejudice or persecution

We want to be recognized as equal individuals despite and because of our ethnicity, religious affiliation, race, gender, or sexual orientation c v e d i to r s @ g m a i l . c o m