El Clasismo y La Gringa

Though we had not much, we still had much more.
On special days I dined at the finest of
restaurants, and shopped at the nicest of
shops. Holidays were spent traveling
the longitudinal beauties of the
slender country, seeing much more than the
very children who were born under the
great Andes. I flew over the Andes,
snowboarded on the Andes, horseback rode on
the Andes. I seized the Andes.

On the metro and bus curious eyes
glanced at my fair, distinctive skin, thinking
not that I was American but a
light-skinned Chilena whose fairness reeked of
privilege, whose mestizo blood contained more
of Europe’s bullion, whose pampered body
dwelt on a large house on a hill, whose mind
was educated at institutions of great
prestige. And in the silence of
public transportation it matters not
if such things are actually true. Such is
my image—the apple of the beastly
classist eye. I cringe. Such is my life.*


With a fool's hope,
Bethany Lauren Grigsby


*Poem originally written in fall of 2007

mailbox ponderings

My student mailbox is located right across from the Door of Discussion. I like this because it helps me keep an eye on the things that get posted there (though there hasn't been much at all this year.) It also allows me to inconspicuously eavesdrop on how people react to the Door. Tonight as I was peeping in my box, several boys walked by and I heard the following jovial conversation.

"What is on the door now?"

"I don't know. Dude, why do you read that stuff?"

"Naw, man. I always read what is on here. People say the stupidest things! Like ohhhh I'm gay . . . but like God still loves me."

"Ohh shoot, that's retarded!"

"Yeah, dude!"

As the group walked loudly laughing, I stood staring after them in furious bewilderment.

I am floored by the opinions students voice here. Just when I start to have hope that at least people are open to the conversation, open to the consideration that love can be a reality, I realize that hope is based on my experience with senior sociology majors. Not mainstream APU population. Not the culture of masculinity. Not youth groups or Bible studies. Not anything remotely resembling the forces that will shape my little brothers' understanding of the world. Just those folks who are finally starting to be able to apply the information that has been harpooned at them for the past four years.

I understand that the above dialogue isn't representative of the general consensus on ways to speak of such things. But it is revealing about the kind of environment we allow to flourish. An environment where an otherwise vaugely mismatched group of kids can find easy acceptance and assumed commonality in hatred and marginalization. Why do we just let it happen? Why doesn't anyone care? The senior sociology majors know how to talk in their classes, almost. Why don't they speak when it matters?

I think I need to walk around with a sign on my back at all times that reads "It's not funny." I have no idea in my little head how to convey to people the gravity of their words. No matter how reasonably I argue or how relatable my stories, it can all be blown off and invalidated with the fatal words, "I was just kidding." The discourses of hegemony that permeate our world here at APU (and at home in youth group) must be exposed for what they are. Until we figure out a way to do this, deadly closets will continue to exist and suck in the lives of beautiful community members.

Do you all have any ideas about discourse that reveals the levity of "humor?"

Thank you jazz

This is a thank you letter
to all those who created and supported
the jazz movement.

Thank you for challenging the acceptable status quo.
For crossing musical borders in pursuit of melodic liberation;
For breaking the classical rules to usher in a brighter, freer future.

Thank you for filling the dark alleys with your songs.
Reverberating off the brick walls.
A saxophone weeping in the purest of tones.
Originating in your soul.
Finding expression through your mouth
Bring translated through that saxophone
Filling the poorest of cities with your sounds.

Thank you for giving us the words to speak
When hate had beaten our bodies to the ground.
Your melodies stitched our bleeding hearts.
Your lyrics brought strength to our bones.
And whether on a cell block floor
Or marching for our freedom in the cold
Your songs always guided us home.

Thank you for building the musical foundation
Upon which our songs were born.
Your courage was the elemental root
Upon which we have built the harmonies that now support our souls
Our actions are the overtones of your chords
Our voices are the voices harmonizing yours.

In each of our songs you can hear your cries.
Each of our words pays tribute to your rhymes
Rhymes with such might
That they can break the grip of whoever holds us down

Rhymes with which we challenge the racial
Framework that has been the slave masters disguise.
With you we strike the glass ceiling
That is invisible to the untrained eye.

Thank for giving us the eyes to see.
The sounds to scream.
The lyrics that freed.

Thank you for giving us the words to speak
The courage to stand
The hope of dreams.

Together we live in resistance
Transcending the restriction of time.
Tomorrow we celebrate our freedom
But until then, we will strive.




-mateo

Dear oppressor

Dear oppressor,

Please stand still while I have my way with you
Hold that posture
As I sculpt you into granite
And create for you a frozen stone planet that only you and your kind could inhabit

Don’t even blink
Lest I remember that you are flesh and blood
And not barbed wire woven into a clockwork system
With an automatic timer set to mangle its victims

Don’t smile or cry
Do not look me in the eye
Or I might recall that once you were a child so weak
And that your beauty left your mother void of speech

Don’t let your body speak
Do not let your stomach growl
Or I’ll start to think that from this earth you and I both eat
And that you are not just a robot or a slab of concrete beneath my own very human feet

Don’t even breathe
I forbid any display of being weak
For I might recognize your precarious life
Or consider that you have a story and are a sister, a son, a father, and wife

Dear oppressor,
As I protest for human rights
And raise my fist so high
Let me forget that we are fashioned of the same clay
Let me strip you of your humanity
Hating you is so much easier this way


With a fool's hope,

Bethany Lauren Grigsby

libre.

This spoken word or song or poem, whatever it may be is dedicated to all of those seeking freedom. They told us it was here, they told us what enslaved us was Satan, I’ve found that he is not the perpetrator anymore.
I’m sorry if you don’t understand it because its in Spanish. Id be happy to talk to you about it if you would like to know more.

Libre
Dios me ha hecho libre
Tu me encadenaste
No fue Satanas

Libre
Tu me encadenaste
Pero yo tengo la llave
Y eso a ti te duele

Mi voz
Sera la que tiembla al cantar
Pero mi voz
Sera la que oyes al pensar y decir…

Libre
Ellos ya son libres
yo los encadeno
y digo que los amo

libre
date cuenta, soy libre
por mas que no me quieras
aqui me quedare

libre
si lo que quieres
es que huya
no te tengo miedo
y no te tengo piedad

libre
mi voz tiene la llave
desato las cadenas
de tu opresion

libre
no tu no eres libre
tienes tus cadenas
de oro y de mentiras
de diamantes y de odio
de riquezas e ignorancia

libre
tu no eres libre
a tu lado sufre gente
de tu mismo color

libre
tu eres el titere
de todos los que te aman
por pensar tal como ellos

liberate
encuentra en las tinieblas
la luz de color negra
que resiste la opresion

Te duele
Verme resistir a gritos
Con canto y con palabras
Con poemas del Corazon

Te digo que escribo porque quiero
Que ya tus dias de victima
Han llegado a su final

Me dices
Que uso solo mi emocion
Que grito y que lloro
Que mas quieres
Si me desgarras el alma
Destruyes mi sentido de ser
Y oprimes a la gente
Que solo mi Cristo supo amar

Cristo, Cristo Jesus
Identificate con nosotros
Señor, Señor mi Dios
Identificate con nosotros
Cristo, cristo Jesus
Solidarizate
No con la voz mas fuerte
Sino con la mia que quieren silenciar
Con la voz de mi gente, mi pueblo que arde
Por la libertad

dorenyse ariana diaz

Dear White-jesus/god,

There will come a time when the people will no longer sit on their hands
and kneal at your idols
they will look past your god and see their own
and in this true light of liberation
they will stand together
the ones you have labeled colors
will rise together

what will you do then when the people are tired
what will you do when survival will no longer lie in putting food on the table
but in the demands of their Freedom

will they still remain invisible to you?
how long will it take for you to acknowledge them
let me know how far will we have to go until you give us what is rightfully ours?

listen now we will speak louder so you can hear us
but we will no longer demand our freedom
we will take what you have denied us...

-Peace be with you.



Freedom♥

my trinkets and beads

I unzip the bag of pictures. Decorations for my room. Memories from my past; inspirations for my future. Here and there, there and here…nowhere and everywhere, everywhere and nowhere.

Trinkets and Beads. A movie that can’t help but disgust the human soul. Exploitation is the theme. Here and there, there and here…nowhere and everywhere, everywhere and nowhere.

Beads cover my wrists from here and there, there and here. Pictures are my trinkets of nowhere and everywhere, everywhere and nowhere. Exploitation is my practice here and there, there and here…nowhere and everywhere, everywhere and nowhere.

I need frames to display my trinkets. My beaded hands instigate the $18 transaction. The wooden shapes are placed into plastic bags. Gas is consumed, lungs blackened, all to escort my idea of art back to the white walls that protect me from the elements.

I sift through ink painted paper. Which faces, which stories, which adventures are frame worthy? Eh, this person was pretty important to me, but the picture just doesn’t look quite “artsy” enough for the wall? Oh, this one is great! A little boy whose name I don’t remember, who knows if I ever actually took the time to get the pronunciation right, is placed behind glass. The glass is cleaned.

My fingers hold the nail against the wall as I begin to hammer. They’re a path back to the beads. Back to the memories. Forward to the future.

The nail is secure, the frame is placed, my feet take a few steps back, my eyes are pleased, the walls are covered…my heart aches. The camera has captured this boys smile amidst a war. A life of killing and rehabilitation. Rejected by his village and desired by my lens. Trapped behind glass he hangs as I prepare for my future.

peace and love