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La Coco “My Battles” “Immigrant Privilege” Technology, Education, and Social Justice A History of Western Art “Susanna and the Elders” Autocorrect: A Feminist Issue Shadows of a Broken System The Leak “CABIN 309” “Kissing Luce and Lauren, Kissing Carolyn” “The Boy with the Feminine Gender” “Life Goals vs Wife Goals” “Part One” You Are As a Flower in Bloom, Beautiful Yet Constantly Evolving Reprogramming “In the See” Look Inside “Art is a Way of Knowing I’ll Stand on My Own Cartoons Oppression 20 Questions (Chris)
Lisa Y. Méndez Lisa Y. Méndez Fabiola Silva Xeturah Woodley
drawing poem essay/poem non-fiction
Laura Anh Williams Julia Vulcan
collage poem
Georgia Valentine
essay
K. Naoma Staley
photo
Melanie SweeneyBowen Lisa Marie Nohner Karen Tellez-Trujillo
fiction
Gregory Serrano
essay
R. Danielle Garcia
mixed media
Cassandra Dixon ”
poem digital collage
” ” ” ” Melissa Aguilera Anna Bauer Eleni Philippou Olivia Lemmons
poem poem
digital collage poem digital collage poem essay mixed media essay essay
Immigrant Privilege Fabiola Silva Making peace with two countries and finding an identity that feels like home has been my immigrant experience. Although I face the same struggles that any bi-cultural person might face in this country, I believe my immigrant experience is one of privilege. Privileged to have been brought up in a border region, only a border crossing away from my country of origin. Privileged to have parents that instilled in me love and respect for my history, my language, my Mexico. Privileged to come and go as I please between two worlds and take advantage of every opportunity that each has to offer. Privileged to have my immediate family members near me without the fear of deportation. Privileged to have an education and a career that I love. Privileged to walk across desserts and rivers in search of prehistoric life and not in search of a new life. Privileged to transcend academic boundaries and conduct research in both countries.
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Privileged to present at a national archaeology conference in San Francisco, CA and the following week have cafÊ and pan ranchero with my dear friends Perfecto and Clotilde in the Sierra Madre de Chihuahua. Privileged to speak and dream in two languages. Privileged to be a visible member of society. Privileged to be an outspoken feminist that chooses who to love and bear children when she pleases and if she pleases. Privileged to witness at a distance the drug war and devastation that tore apart my native city of Juarez in recent years; feeling guilty knowing that I’m alive and safe. Privileged to critically analyze my own privilege.
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Technology, Education and Social Justice Xeturah Woodley, Ph.D. When we talk about social justice in my courses, for many people it is the first time they've heard of what Audre Lorde called human blindnesses. Homophobia, racism, sexism, classism and all of the other social ills, which plague us at the core of our humanity, keep us from loving one another. Social justice means struggling with the inherent biases that plague our society and, for many of my Learning Design and Technologies (LDT) students; it requires them to think beyond the technology. For me, and the students that choose to move through the pain that comes from acknowledging privilege, social justice is about using technology in liberatory ways. One of the first questions I get from students is “how can technology be liberatory?� After all, for so many of them, technology is a tool they use for personal gain. Whether texting a friend, participating in social media, or using an app to pay a bill, the focus is often on how the technology makes their lives easier. Rarely is the centre on how to use the technology to promote justice in the world. By providing them with examples of technology used in just ways, students can better understand why technology is so important is social movements. Recent examples include the use of Twitter, YouTube and Facebook to gather support for movements like #BlackLivesMatter, #TechnoFeminist, and Occupy Wallstreet (#OWS). YouTube video of Eric Garner pleading for release as police officers killed him sparked worldwide support to end police brutality. Online broadcasts of the Arab Spring pushed the movement for democracy forward in ways that never would have happened were it not for the technology.
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As a womanist educator, who happens to work in Technology, part of my job is to introduce students to ways technology can be used to liberate minds, bodies and spirit as well as push social movements forward around the world. One way NMSU students participate as agents of social change is through the American Library Associations (ALA) Read-Out Project. Every fall semester, the ALA sponsors a virtual read-out where people can record themselves reading from a banned book and post the recording online. This act of resistance challenges censorship and majoritarian notions of domination. While students are free to choose from an extensive list of books, many decide to read from books like Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire and Black Boy by Richard Wright. So what does technology have to do with social justice? In the hands of community organizers, student activists, and social justice educators, technology becomes a conduit to bring forth social change. The revolution may not be televised, but it is being #hashtagged and tweeted. That whistle means another mind just got liberated!
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Laura Anh Williams, A History of Western Art
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Susanna and the Elders An ekphrastic poem based off the painting by Artemisia Gentileschi
Julia Vulcan We can plainly see Susanna’s keen discomfort in this scene (though historically, her assault often painted in a different light). Often depicted as a cheesecake shot, Artemisia’s Susanna and the Elders quite the opposite; her face and body turn away, disgust, refusal to the elders’ advances. Her face nor shy nor coy, her arms held up in defense. No smile no sultry eyes, brow wrinkled mouth a frown, body language screams NO Returning from a bath, white towel slipped exposing her body to the elders’ gaze, while they themselves fully clothed intent on their own libido. The voyeurs, lecherous old men, loom over Susanna, voice shaming words, blackmail in her ear; they want her to submit to their horrifying demands. Indifferent, sky blue behind the men, soft clouds drift by. The garden bench on which Susanna sits pale, gray rock.
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Autocorrect: A Feminist Issue Georgia Valentine My iPhone 5c won't autocorrect the word "abortion." It treats it like it's not a word. Like it's not something that 20%* of women experience in their reproductive lifetime. Like it's something bad and dirty and wrong, something not even worthy of autocorrect. It doesn't "learn" the word, either, the same way it won't learn "shit" or "fuck" (which always correct to "shot" and "duck"), but it will learn "Hahaha" and "omw." When I was 16, I asked my mom to help me get on birth control, because I had a 21 year boyfriend, and I was "in love" (plus, birth control was clearly my responsibility, since he hated condoms). She was freaked out by my request (understandably so, since she never even told me about periods until I had one), but said, "Yeah, sure." So I waited...and waited...and waited for her to bring it up again. But she never did. Still hasn't almost 20 years later. Luckily, my friends and I knew about a Planned Parenthood in the area, so we all started getting free paps and birth control there. My friend had an abortion a couple years ago. She was crying afterward, and her boyfriend was there with her, silently holding her hand and being concerned and not knowing what else to do or say. The nurse at the clinic told her she should stop crying because it's probably making her boyfriend feel bad, and he already feels bad enough. A woman walked out of the bathroom at the restaurant as I was walking in. She had an angry, put-out look on her face. My immediate thought was, "Jeez, I wonder what's up her ass." When I walked out of the bathroom, I saw a man waiting for his turn for the men's room. He looked 8
even surlier than the woman, but I barely noticed. Suddenly, though, I remembered #RBF (resting bitch face), and realized how sexist I'd just been. Before I left the restaurant, I made a point to walk by the woman's table and smile at her. It was an apologetic gesture for something she didn't even know I did, but I'm sure she's been chastised about her RBF before. Someone probably told her that she'd be way prettier if she smiled. Statistics support the fact that White American males constitute only 33% of the population. Yet, they occupy approximately* • 80% of tenured positions in higher education • 80% of the House of Representatives • 80-85% of the U. S. Senate • 92% of Forbes 400 executive CEO-level positions • 90% pf public school superintendents • 99.9% of athletic team owners • 97.7% of U. S. presidents But people deny that feminism is necessary, that men's rights are being stepped on and crushed, that women are the ones with real privilege in this world. Because if you just pretend it doesn't exist, if you pretend it doesn't affect you, if you don't see how it actually does affect you, then it goes away? If a woman conquers the world, but no one sees it due to all the dicks in their eyes, does it really happen? * http://www.guttmacher.org/pubs/fb_induced_abortion.html * https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/microaggressions-ineveryday-life/201011/microaggressions-more-just-race
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K. Naoma Staley, Shadows of a Broken System, 2010
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Sunland Park, NM 11
The Leak Melanie Sweeney Bowen For weeks, she heard the dripping sound, and for weeks he didn't. She went from room to room, listening to walls, searching the ceiling for discoloration. "There . . . there . . . there . . ." she said, her ear lifted toward the sound, which was always just out of range to pinpoint. “Nope. I don't hear it.� Then he went back to holding a rattle above the baby's face, enticing her to grab it. For three weeks, off and on, the dripping -- the leak, as she came to call it -- came and went. When the baby was awake and demanding her attention, her body, her lilting, gentle voice, she went entire hours without hearing the subtle but steady rhythm. Then the baby would nap, and she'd sit in the house, littered with burp cloths and blankets, and there it would be again. There. There. There. When she ventured into the attic, baby monitor clipped to her jeans, flashlight between her teeth, she didn't know what she was looking for exactly besides the obvious: water. Up there, it was stuffy and hot. She had to crouch under the apex beam. Following the slant of the roof, she had to crawl on hands and knees then drop to her forearms and drag her still puffy belly along the unfinished wood rafters to fit in the tightest parts. Every time the baby slept, she pulled down the creaky staircase and went up, searching and listening until a whimper broke through the steady static on the baby monitor. Some days, she spent three or four broken hours up there. She crouched, crawled, and dragged herself over every foot of rafters, sweat curling the hairs around her face. The dripping propelled her, starting out like a panicky urge -- go, go, go. But often, when the baby's cry interrupted her progress, she realized the dripping had fallen away at some point, the way a racing pulse eventually settles. She would raise the folding staircase back up and pause for a moment in the bright hall, her 12
damp skin dimpling in the cooler air, and feel like she was emerging from water, everything coming startlingly back into focus. Maybe if he heard the leak, too, she could let it go. He told her to call a guy, if she was so concerned. She did. He told her everything was just fine. She began returning to the attic at night while her family slept. One morning he picked pink insulation from her hair, and she quickly copied his confused expression. "Huh, where'd that come from?" She snuck into the attic any time he had the baby and she could get away. If they went for a walk, if his parents came to visit, once during a dinner party with their friends, pulling the staircase up after herself for a quick five minutes. Always, she was calculating her next attic escape, the hours like mile markers until she could rest. And then it stormed, and the power went out. "Do you hear that dripping?" he joked, nodding at the thrumming rain on the window. She didn't laugh. She got out of bed and left the room. It was darker than usual as she ascended the creaky stairs. She didn't take her flashlight, but by now she didn't need it. She crouched, crawled, and then dragged herself through the stuffy darkness until she was above the room where her daughter slept, the rain roaring against the roof just above her head. There was the storm and the darkness and the wood against her palms. She strained to hear the dripping through the rush of rain. She strained to hear the baby crying or her husband calling her name. She waited and waited, there or there or there. But there was nothing. Only her and nothing else. To be sure, she waited some more.
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CABIN 309 Lisa Marie Nohner When my parents sent me to Camp Crystal Lake I brought: one bikini, two packs of Lucky Strikes, thirteen tampons, four condoms, and all my Girl Scout Badges— Since mother said I was too old to bring my baby blanket. All the counselors looked like Miami Beach Ken dolls, and stupid me I forgot: deodorant, toothpaste, bug spray, manners. My sunburnt skin burst everywhere— a weeping blister, wrapped in lycra that could not hide my dimpled thighs. At night I stuffed my badges between my teeth like lacquered fabric cookies, and I picked all my scabs until they scarred so I knew I would not cry.
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I thought the nighttime hum was only cicadas strumming their wings in the air above my bunk. But the yellow moon showed a boy with a face the color of a bruise, breathing wet and heavy just outside my window. While the other girls kept busy wearing deodorant and sunscreen, and displaying their feelings in hokey macaroni frames— I was alone in the woods, sucking the filter off a cigarette and burying my Girl Scout badges, one by one. That night my boyfriend carved our initials (LN + JV) into ten or twenty suntanned, teenage trees—using just the tip of his shiny, stiff machete. And I didn't need my baby blanket, because he let me poke my fingers through the holes in his mask, his skin all blue and glowing underneath. When they found my body in the cabin, it was just as naked as the others. But I was too old to shudder. And I was too proud to scream. 15
Kissing Luce and Lauren Kissing Carolyn Karen Tellez-Trujillo Dearests, I want to do you justice when my lips move across yours The lovers are present, beginning with connection through the physical, through flesh and then through language, through naming and through expressions of “I love you,” as a means of exchange, but also as an affirmation of love of oneself and is neither “gift nor debt,” but an entrustment between the two. The two have the opportunity to become one through reproduction, but why should they? They find oneness when through their lips, they join and nothing can pass between them – not word, nor space. The lips also spoken by you Luce are labia spaces, always touching, also providing fulfillment without the need for the intervention of the other to make the two whole, regardless of the space between present an opportunity but not a need to be filled, or to fix the void. When the two become two, take on the identity of two, they lose a bit of themselves, because as one is when they are…. Don’t define the the woman through a moment or event The woman does not become woman through penetration, nor does virginity note the beginning or end of womanhood. 16
The touching that takes place, of the self, of the other does not need words, nor filling of a “chasm.� These bodies, want to be present, not dying, not living in the past, but living fluidly, without borders and with words that can feel love across spaces. They search for and want a language that will keep them living together, like skin, not possessive or within but as two who can feel themselves and the other through touch, living free and without judgment, truly naked of all the layers that keep
separate.
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The Boy with Feminine Gender: Starring Gregory Serrano Gregory Serrano Ever since I can remember, people have been saying that I was not like “other” boys, that I was somehow different. At the time, maybe seven-eight years old, I thought this was cool, that perhaps I was something special. Then, in one moment that all changed. I don’t remember the particular day, in fact, I do not even recall what grade I was in, but I think I was in the third. Either way, that is not so much relevant to the rest of my story anyway. I was at school, on the playground, in P.E. class, when a discussion with the teacher and other students segued into favorite musical artists, etc. Of course, this is the late ‘90’s, so some people said Britney Spears, others stated Backstreet Boys, ‘NSync, however, when it came time for me to respond, I enthusiastically stated “Madonna!!” She had always been my favorite, I just really love her style and her desire to really push the envelope. It quickly became apparent, though, that I was alone in this thought as my teacher quickly stated “but, she’s a woman!? In what ways could you possibly relate?” After not being able to come up with a better answer, I simply stated that I liked her style and clothes. While the details of my memory are a bit blurry now, somewhere along the way this led to her saying that if I wanted to be like Madonna (which was not even the topic of conversation), then I must desire to be a “transsexual whore.” I will never forget those two words, how powerful they were, how inappropriate they were, and looking back on it, the audacity of an adult to call a child that just blows my mind! After this event, I continued the rest of my school day in a complete daze; I was utterly confused by what had just occurred. I mean, I only had a vague idea what a transsexual even was! And, a whore? Where was the connection to these labels and my personal identity? Was I a transsexual? Admittedly, I did always portray “Ginger Spice” when we played “Spice Girls” during recess, ninety-five percent of my friends were female, I felt awkward anytime I was shirtless, and anytime someone addressed me using masculine pronouns it made me feel 18
awkward…why was it necessary to point out that I had a penis, and my sisters had a vagina? Beyond physiology, what did this mean? I remember people used to address me in ways that were very different than my (mostly) female friends; in fact, some people were even confused by why I had so many female friends. In this way, I felt that being male was something that was dirty, I was cursed. Back to my point, I told my mom about the now infamous “incident,” and needless to say, she was beyond mad! I think at first, though, she did not believe me, which I understand now. I mean, who wants to believe that an adult, a professional at that, would say such horrible things? To make matters more interesting, the teacher cut a deal with me, she would not tell my mom that I had cussed on the playground if I told her that I lied about what she said. I agreed. I lied, but I agreed. I wish I could say that is where this story ends, but it is not. From that point on, other students, I guess picking up on the gender “deviancy,” started to refer to me as “Madonna” and/or “Gregoria,” which was a favorite amongst my friends’ parents. Fortunately for me, I did not so much realize at the time that these names were meant to be derogatory…to be honest, I thought it was rather cool to be called “Madonna!” My mom saw things differently, and decided it best if I switched school districts instead of prolonging my “agony” (of which I was unaware) by having me continue with the same school system. Looking back, I wonder if this was more to save my mom from embarrassment for having a non-conformist child than it was for my own “good.” Anyway, the plan backfired, as my first day of middle school in the new system began with a student yelling out over the auditorium, “Hey Madonna!!” At first I was excited, thinking that it was an old classmate. That did not last long, though, as I turned around to find an unfamiliar face with a smug look on his face. He goes on to say that he knows someone who knows me, and to make a long story short…I, Gregory, the gender bender, was infamous! While most of the students did not seem to care that my gender portrayal did not match up to their own, the same cannot be said for the school faculty. What was it with me and teachers? I have 19
not a clue. Unfortunately, though, similar events occurred there, albeit not as controversial, or perhaps, I was just more used to them at this point. My sixth and seventh grade years were largely unproblematic, but eighth grade started off with a bang in the worst of ways. Only a week or two into the semester, we wrote poems for English class. I guess I missed the memo that these were supposed to be “happy” poems, because I instead decided to write something a bit more relatable. I don’t even remember the details of the poem, but it was basically about a girl who was experienced depression. I did not think much about it after reading the poem aloud, until a few days later, when I was called out of class to go to the guidance counselor’s office. At first, I did not even know why this was happening, then she mentioned the poem, and I figured it was just one of those protocol-type things, “oh, let’s make sure he isn’t suicidal.” Turns out, they read way more into the poem than was intended, and instead thought that it was Satanic, or something anti-Christian. The counselor kept asking me if I was Christian, to which I replied no, then she stated that I risked going to Hell if I did not accept Jesus, etc. Of course, for me this is déjà vu, considering my elementary school fiasco, so when I get home I tell my mom what happened, except this time she did not have to decide whether or not I was telling the truth, since the school had already called her to set up a meeting. What happens next still pisses me off; during this meeting, which I did not attend, aside from what was said to me, they also told my mom about a “career fair” poster that I drew for class the year before, which showcased two professional wrestlers, Amy “Lita” Dumas and Kane, as the idea was for us to draw a description of what we wanted to be when “we grew up,” and at that point, while most other kids wanted to be physicians and lawyers, I wanted to wrestle. Anyway, despite there being both a male and female wrestler drawn, they tried to convince my mom that the portrait of Lita was intended to be me, and that I was transgender and obviously needed “help.” My mom, though, instantly recognized the drawing, because she and I watched WWE wrestling together all the time, refuted their claims, and then asked what they had to do with anything anyway. I do not remember the specifics of the conclusions of that meeting, but I 20
do recall being really annoyed at my mom for taking such an awkward stance: no the drawing was not of me, but YES I definitely did idolize Amy “Lita” Dumas! Sadly, from that point on, I was harassed by both the counselor and the vice principal of the school, not to mention the fact that two of my teachers, one of which I really liked, turned against me in a lot of ways. Ultimately, I left school that year, and home-schooled, which eventually led to me dropping out, and being completely isolated from human contact, considering all of my friends stayed in the school system. I still look back on all of that with anger, sadness, and more recently, guilt, because I feel like in a lot of ways I allowed them to win. Unfortunately, I did not quite yet understand such aspects as Judith Butler’s (1997) “gender performativity;” I did not understand that gender was socially constructed, or that it was something that we are taught to portray, not something that is “natural,” at least not to the degree that I am aware of it now. I guess in a way, though, I did always find it peculiar that gender was discussed as something that certain individuals possessed physically that caused them to act in a particular way, or present themselves in a specific manner (468). Why would this be? Why is there not room for individuality? We talk about the importance of individuality all the time, but we are also simultaneously supposed to act in a certain way in order for our identities to be legitimated? There were moments when I actually thought that other boys really were masculine, and I was supposed to just pretend to be so that I did not stand out. Oddly, I remember telling people when I was younger that I identified as female since that is what others say I act more like. I had no intention of changing my personality, so instead, I figured I would change how I was addressed. However, there was never any desire to physically change my appearance to match up with my “perceived-by-others” gender. I have always been baffled by the transphobia that exists in the U.S. considering that in a lot of ways it becomes necessary for individuals to transition in a society that promotes so heavily that those with penises need to exhibit masculinity, and those with vaginas need to display femininity, with no room for anything to exist outside of this binary (Feinberg 1992). It is for these reasons that I decided to go into 21
gender studies, and so for that, I can thank those who made me feel bad about myself when I was younger, because without you, I might not have had the bravery, or even the knowledge, to (hopefully) help others in the future. Butler, Judith. 1997. Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory Pp. 462-473 in Feminist Theory Reader: Local and Global Perspectives. 3rd Ed. Edited by Carole R. McCann and Seung-Kyung Kim. 2013. New York, NY: Routledge. Feinberg, Leslie. 1992. Transgender Liberation: A Movement Whose Time Has Come. Pp 148- 158 in Feminist Theory Reader: Local and Global Perspectives. 3rd Ed. Edited by Carole R. McCann and Seung-Kyung Kim. 2013. New York, NY: Routledge.
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Part One Cassandra Dixon This strange generation exists between sleeping and waking. It holds in its hands the soil of the past and the seeds of the future. However, we ďŹ nd in every city a woman of the future. -Kahlil Gibran, The Broken Wings She had done something of which her self did not approve. Her father wouldn't have her mother wouldn't have her lover, wouldn't have approved. She was the only one who remembered anymore. The men surely have forgotten, twisted she loved it. It seemed the memories of their faces she now abstracted in the moon light in the seat of her throne mountain, witness in time. The rip in body, spirit, a stinking gash covered in hair brushed by eshy weapons and matted under glass. Through the doorway, dread locked, through the swollen opening, with courage, touch the surface, observe the surface, expose the interior, 24
experience the interior. Sit on the signiďŹ cance and take possession of the night that still echoes forward, hurdling now through stars, clouds, oxygen, skin, muscle, bone, slits vent hissing spirit furiously contained. She uses large ďŹ ngers delicately determined to open the box.
Cassandra Dixon, You Are As a Flower In Bloom, Beautiful Yet Constantly Evolving
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Cassandra Dixon, Reprogramming
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In the See Cassandra Dixon Looking in no direction. Both eyes were always internally looking away. Sealed tightly open I pulled my head out and stuck it in the sky. Now I see every angle. Now I’m looking except this time my eyes are above you and all around you. Why, my eye is in the clouds! Preparation. Incubation. Illumination. Verification. And I see that the ridges are a spine. I see that the rivers are a vein. I see that as I cut myself open the ocean spills over I fill my stinking wounds with salt and I untangle my legs, dragged behind this speeding boat no more.
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Cassandra Dixon, Look Inside
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Art is a Way of Knowing Cassandra Dixon Create yourself Fertilize yourself Build yourself Feel yourself Explore your self. Construct yourself Destroy yourself Touch yourself Feed yourself Appropriate yourself Fuck yourself Fight yourself Love yourself Live yourself.
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I’ll Stand on My Own Melissa Aguilera Family conversations often bring up painful if not troubling memories. My mother said to me across the table that women of a certain age would not likely marry because it’s just easier for men. There is nothing wrong with getting married. I was married. I am now divorced. Let’s go back for a moment. I’m not in the habit of telling my life story. But I have had to learn that I need to tell it and it needs to be said the way I want. People do make a habit of telling your story if you don’t do it for yourself. I’m a 32-year-old Hispanic woman, with a Master’s degree (first and only in my family) and as I have said I am divorced. Saying it and even writing it now can be painful. Women often define themselves by the relationships they are in or have. We chronically feel powerless and give that power to those people telling our stories. One of the greatest most powerful things I have learned is that I am not defined by anything anyone has ever said about me. Think about it. No one person’s perception of you should define you. There are so many parts to us. The pieces are not always shown and we have to maneuver who sees what. Why do we do this to ourselves? As I listened to my mother who had been divorced but quickly remarried it struck me. She has never been on her own. She went from her father’s house to the man she married back to her father’s then to the new man she married. I’m now currently in a job I love, volunteering with young girls to remind them of all the amazing things about themselves, and single. I’m happy on my own for now. So I’m not a sad case by any means. I think again we as women are working on our own definitions of happiness, relationships, and success. No one person but yourself has the power to make the shift of what we believe about ourselves. Loving yourself as 30
you are is an act of courage. It takes courage to tell your own story and inspire others to do the same. It is working in a field or career you love. Being authentic and hopelessly devoted to yourself. Social justice takes on many forms. Learning about yourself and understanding that you deserve the best and more. Asking to be paid fairly to and to live your life the way that you choose is empowering. Single, married, broke, or whatever you choose. Be aware that we empower each other and shouldn’t tear each other down by our choices. It is in this union that we can grow and move forward. A quote I have often thought of on my empowerment journey is by bell hooks. She once said, “I will not have my life narrowed down. I will not bow down to someone else’s whim or to someone else’s ignorance.”
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by Anna Bauer 32
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Oppression Eleni Philippou Throughout my life, my family and I have been victims of oppression. Sexism and ableism are the antagonists we relentlessly battle for what feels like many decades. My brother and sister, who have autism, have been fighting ableism since their toddler years. Their entire lives have been overcoming their unwanted silence. They desire the freedom to communicate like “normally-abled” people. Autism does NOT discriminate; it exists in all genders, sexes, races/ethnicities, classes and sexual orientations. Ableist ideologies expect society to behave in a “normative way,” through Patriarchy-giving white, heterosexual, normally abled men power over women, children and other men who do not fit these criteria. Those with autism are oppressed through judgments, prejudice, silence, inability to socialize, communicate and self-express and sensory issues. Ableism (favoring non-disabled people) is a powerful method of discrimination that has conditioned society to see the disabled (mentally and/or physically) as “burdens.” Disabled people are not expected to survive on their own. When my siblings were toddlers, they developed at the same pace as “normal” children. When they were the ages of three and four they began showing signs of autism-no or little speech, inability to socialize and self-express. Many melt-downs would occur as results of frustration of their inabilities to communicate. Strangers and even friends and family members would judge my siblings and my parents by assuming my siblings were “spoiled brats” due to my parents lacking parenting skills. My parents received unwanted “expert” advice. Some “friends” of my family and relatives quit being part of my family’s life by no longer wanting to be associated with the abnormal family or not being there when they were needed most. My parents were hurt by these words and actions. My mom was very close to her sister who would always visit our home. My mom treated her like a guest of honor; she was always there for her sister. One day changed their relationship. 34
My mom was extremely overwhelmed with raising three children; she lost a lot of sleep. My dad was always working during the day and came home exhausted; he was no help to my mom. When she asked her sister to watch my siblings and me for a few hours so she could sleep, her sister refused and did not understand the need for sleep and overwhelmed state. “You want to sleep?” Their relationship was broken. For many years, they were estranged. The lesson learned was, we knew who our true friends are when the others abandon us during our worst times. Fortunately, my family made friends through my siblings who stood by us through “thick and thin.” These friends continue to be in our lives. My sister is afflicted and suppressed through her gender and disability. Patriarchy has silenced women in order to keep them in line throughout history. Women are expected to be passive, not to talk back to men, and be unassuming. Being disabled, my sister’s inability to communicate and socialize are her everyday obstacles. As a woman, her silence is more acceptable through society assuming that she has no personal identity and accepts being oppressed. Women with deviant behavior are considered to be mentally ill. “Female organs” have been blamed for this behavior. The mentally disabled have received similar treatment. One teacher wanted my siblings to be institutionalized—this infuriated my parents. This teacher had no right to judge! My late father suffered from Parkinson’s. The symptoms of this disease, such as tremor (shaking) and affected speech, became stronger in his final years of life. Like anyone else suffering from this disease and other disabled people, he could no longer be independent. He constantly had to depend on others to help him do things others take for granted, such as walking, talking, typing and moving. He became desperate for a cure. My father could no longer do his favorite hobbies-gardening, cooking, traveling and dancing. He felt he could no longer be the man he was prior to the disease. His body and life were stolen 35
from him. I felt sympathy for him. Every day I wished for the disease to disappear so he could be himself again and not be depressed. Parkinson’s led to other oppressions such as judgments, misunderstandings and fear. His shaking and struggle to speak led others to assume that he was drunk. He would be forced out of places and sometimes picked up by the police. I would spend sleepless nights worrying about him. He would go out and not answer his phone, which led me to dreading for the worst. I remember the phone ringing at five o’clock on a Sunday morning. I thought to myself, Who would be calling at this hour? I began to fear for the worst- my dad being found dead. I answered the phone to a woman I have never met. She told me, “Is this Mr. Philippou’s home? He is with me and my husband at our home. He doesn’t have his medicine. Please tell me what to do.” I became so nervous. I woke up my mom to speak with this woman. My mom told this stranger what to do and how to get to our house. I honestly do not know what I would do without my mom. She is the one who kept our family together. The family wall would crumble without her. When my father struggled to speak, he and those he was trying to communicate with were extremely frustrated. Imagine trying to speak and the words not coming out-not even a syllable. The only sounds made being humming or stuttering. This inability could last for hours, a day or more. New methods of communication are necessary. Through lack of speech, my father could relate to my siblings, particularly my brother, who has been unable to speak for the majority of his twenty four years of life. My mom and I wished for both of the males in our family to speak, say even a few words, even if the words were “fuck off.” Words of profanity were better than being in complete silence. Unfortunately, my brother is still unable to speak. Society frequently shuns and fears the disabled. Rather than 36
seeing the person first, the disability is the first thing people see. Disabled people are sometimes not even considered to be human beings; but compared to animals or as creatures only seen in science fiction. My siblings have always received unwanted stares from people looking at them like they were wild beasts. People need to learn not to be so quick to judge; education is the key. I have personally been oppressed through my “abnormal behavior” of not acting like my peers. During my years of elementary school and junior high, I was very shy and kept to myself. Some of my classmates did not understand why I behaved this way. I was harassed by classmates; they would try to get me to speak to them through yelling and name calling. I did not understand what their problem was. I have been judged as “stupid,” “rude,” or “stuck-up.” Others thought that I could not talk. My intelligence was questioned. I was accused of thinking I was too good to speak to some people by not always answering their questions. I have had to learn to stand up for myself and others with similar struggles. My shyness has been a battle throughout my childhood and adult life. Speaking to a peer or adult was something I had to build up courage to do. My high school years were when I blossomed. Although I was still shy, I was not afraid to speak to my teachers. I did not have to depend on someone else to ask my questions. I have learned not to judge others so quickly. I do not know the struggles and oppressions they are going through. Not all oppressions are visible. I think that everyone deserves a chance in life without judgments. I have been given that chance by my true friends. Throughout our battles of oppression, my family and I have stayed strong and together. A united family can defeat any evil life has to offer. Family and love last forever. My father and siblings have taught me forgiveness, to love unconditionally and not to take anything for granted. I am fortunate to be “able-bodied” by being able to move, walk, hear, speak and learn. My family will always be there for me. 37
20 Questions (Chris) Olivia Lemmons I don’t know why they call it the easy way out because it’s definitely the hardest thing you could put someone through. Chris, I only know half your story, and I know everyone has their demons but you were an angel to us all. Though I never got the chance to meet you, I still consider you my brother. You were so young; she is so young. Your story wasn’t finished. She told me how you were the one. You made my sister so happy, if you only knew. What was going through your mind during those last few minutes? Did you know that she would be the one to find you— your lifeless body on the floor, blood splattered on the walls, in the room we grew up in? Did you know I had to talk her off the ledge afterward? I can only imagine the damage she’s done to her liver. She said she saw your ghost once. Can you see her Chris? Will she ever learn to love again? She told me how you kissed her forehead before you left the room. That last kiss—will she cringe every time she’s kissed there now? Did you know she had the courage to go to your funeral? Did you know your mother chose to have an open casket? Amelia said that it didn’t even look like you lying there, just this body with tons of makeup on. Did you know your mother blamed Amelia for your death? What about when we had to fold your clothes and give them back to your mother? The house felt so empty and lifeless even after we cleaned it. She came to live with me for a few months. I tried and tried to make her happy. She smiled a little. I even got her to laugh a few times.
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The anniversary of your death is coming up. Yes, March 1st. I pray for you Chris, all the time. Sometimes I get so angry I just cry. The damage, so much damage— broken hearts, sleepless nights, and of course the remodeling of my childhood home. But I don’t write these words out of hatred; not at all. I only hate the way you chose to leave us. I’d wish you back in a heartbeat. I can’t listen to love songs. They only make me think of my sister’s phone call to my mother. “Chris is dead, there’s blood everywhere.” They only make me think of my mother’s voice crying on the phone, telling me what had happened, and of course me crying every second I was alone for months afterwards. I see photos of you now, your smile, so happy, so in love. I know you loved her. There’s no doubt in my mind. But now I know that there was pain behind those eyes. I guess those that seem the happiest are the ones who are hurting the most. Rest in peace, Chris.
1-800-273-8255 National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
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Women’s Studies at NMSU offers a B.A., minor, and graduate minor in the interdisciplinary, intersectional study of gender and sexuality. Our major, minor, and courses are offered online and face-2-face. Women’s Studies is deeply connected with examining the social from decentered, decolonized positions and skills gained from our degree and courses translate into vital career resources. Did you know that many people choose to double major and minor with us because the distinct knowledge and experience gained from our field not only make them more competitive on the job market, but that it also makes their life and job experiences more vital and richer? Take the very notion of positionality, what is an understanding of our identities without a glance toward the forces that help produce, shape, and maintain them? What is an understanding of our places within different social structures—even our own relationships to social justice—if we do not interrogate the provisional, the frustrating, the pleasurable, the difficult, and the seemingly unchanged? SJZ offers here a glance, an initial effort and reflection. But, as the zinester Jenny San Diego writes in Not Sorry #3 (2005), “how else are these stories going to be documented? […] these stories will most likely not be found in any future history books, and if they are, they will most likely be totally inaccurate. Now I know that this zine will not go much beyond the zine reading community, but this is where I have chosen to start and it's something which is always better than nothing."
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SJZ: Social Justice Zine vol. 1: the positionality issue Spring 2016 sjz is lovingly cut and pasted together by the academic program in Women’s Studies at New Mexico State University. Its current iteration is a collaboration between undergraduate students, graduate students, alumni, and faculty. We would like to also include voices from our larger community, region, and beyond in future issues. This inaugural issue centers on the notion of positionality—a term that draws attention to the forces that produce and maintain subject positions as well as to the dynamics and implications at play when subject positions appear stabilized—and features several different works operating through multiple mediums that interrogate the very notion of subject position from its most subjected spaces.
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